


U.N.C.L.E. SNAPSHOTS

by mrua7



Series: U.N.C.L.E. SNAPSHOTS [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 105
Words: 63,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2309822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short fics... Just my mind taking some meanderings with Illya and Napoleon and a few others characters, some of which will be OC's. These stories are like a photograph, looking at specific moments in time. Each chapter is a separate story. Some will be canon, fanon and AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am not cheap, I am frugal

Napoleon Solo leaned against the bathroom door post, watching his partner brush his teeth at the sink. He took note that like many things Illya owned, the toothbrush had seen better days.

"Why don't you just spring for a new one?" He asked.

Illya rinsed and spit, washed the brush under the tap water and put it in his travel case before answering.

"Like many of my possessions, it is still serviceable. I see nothing wrong with it. And before you accuse me of being cheap...there is nothing wrong with frugality."

"Illya you make more than enough money to afford to buy yourself a few things...just what do you do with your money.? Lord know's I never see you spend it on anything.

The Russian walked out of the bathroom to the bed, stowing his travel kit in his suitcase. They'd successfully completed their assignment, but their flight back to New York wasn't until the morning.

"I am saving it for a rainy day," he winked.

"Illya, may I remind you we're field agents and there's a good chance that rainy day won't come..."

"That is not your usual optimism," Illya quirked his head. " I suppose thinking like that, my friend, is why you are always broke."

"Speaking of broke, can you loan me fifty bucks until pay day, I have a hot date with a blonde I met in the bar last night."

Illya closed his eyes, shaking his head as he took his wallet from his trouser pocket, withdrawing the cash. "You started this conversation just to lead to borrowing money from me again, did you not?" He smiled ruefully.

"Well I am a master strategist, thank you very much." Napoleon snatched the money from his partner's hand, saluting him.

"I will put that on your tab," the Russian added. "By the way, it is growing quite long again."

His words were lost as Napoleon Solo had already retreated out the door...


	2. Gossip

Illya and Napoleon walked along the grey corridors of the New York headquarters at a leisurely pace as a bevy of beauties from the secretarial pool flocked by, whispering as they passed the handsome American, yet ignoring the Russian. At the same time Illya was oblivious to them as he had his reading glasses on and his nose buried in a file.

He managed to keep it there and still sidestep people as the walked towards them without batting an eye, or missing a step. He finally looked up upon hearing the giggling and chatter of the women as they stood nearby, huddled together.

"Do you not ever tire of all...that? Illya asked, gesturing with his hand. "Look at them, acting like a gaggle of geese."

"Never." Solo grinned, straightening his tie, glancing back at them. "And I think of them more as swans."

"All they do is gossip about you, does that not bother you?"

"To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, "Anything worse than people talking about you, is having no one talk about you. Talking about me, ahem, leads to other things."

"Only you could use Wilde as validation for your liaisons," Illya sighed. "Gossip is just a distraction for people who have nothing better to do, as they feel jealous of those of us still remaining with noble hearts."

"Are you accusing those lovely ladies of being ignoble?" Napoleon cringed. "If you are, you'll never get a date around here again."

"I will take my chances."

"It is always assumed by the empty-headed, who chatter about themselves for want of something better, that people who do not discuss their affairs openly must have something to hide." Napoleon smiled.

"Quoting de Balzac will not change my opinion of gossip," the Russian countered. "And by the way, you just insulted the ladies of the secretarial pool by calling them a empty-headed."

"I wasn't referring to them."

"Tell them that," Illya smiled wryly, pointing to the crowd of women who now stood behind his partner, none of them looking very happy...

The blond turned on his heels, speaking in French, "Je vous laisse à votre dilemme_ I leave you to your dilemma."

"Hey aren't you supposed to watch my back partner mine?" Napoleon called as the women closed in. He could hear the Russian whistling as he turned the corner, and instantly recognized the melody to "He will break your heart."

It was Napoleon's turn to roll his eyes...


	3. Owie

Illya Kuryakin sat shirtless on an exam table in Medical, with his physical complete he was ready to step down and finish dressing himself.

"One moment Mr. Kuryakin," the male medical technician said. He reached over and jabbed the Russian's arm with a rather large needle.

"Ow!" Illya snapped, giving him one of his classic cold stares.

"Oh the big bad spy has an owie...it was just a little prick," the tech replied.

"I think you are the prick," Illya mumbled, "A little warning would have been nice." He rubbed his forearm, examining the injection site, feeling a miniscule bump just beneath his skin.

"What is this?"

"It's a new subcutaneous tracking device." Alexander Waverly said, appearing in the doorway. "Quite clever and you being familiar with microelectronics can appreciate its construction. This now eliminates the need to use the homing signal in the communicator pen. Field agents are often relieved of equipment when waylaid, so this new tracker covers our agents no matter where they are."

"So if I miss a scheduled check-in, UNCLE will still be aware of where I am...dead or alive," Illya concluded dispassionately. "Clever."

"I'm glad you agree Mr. Kuryakin, as your next assignment will require radio silence, but we'll still know precisely where you are at all times. Now if you'll get dressed, and meet me in my conference room, we can review the details."

"Yes sir, I will be there shortly," Illya said, slowly putting on his shirt until Waverly was out of sight. "Now about that prick. "He turned to the medical technician...

Illya arrived right on time to his meeting with Alexander Waverly, and while he was reading over the file that had been sent round to him on the conference table, the telephone in the wall alcove rang.

"Yes," the Old Man answered, pausing then to listen. "The devil you say, yes I will, and thank you for your prompt attention." He hung up the receiver, looking directly at his Russian.

"Mr. Kuryakin, would you know anything about a medical technician being tied up in a bed sheet and having been given...I believe the term is, a wedgie?"

Illya shook his head, letting his lower lip protrude just slightly as he flashed his blue eyes in an innocent stare.

"Not going to work young man,"Waverly huffed."May I remind you not to terrorize our Medical personnel, they like you, are merely doing their job."

Kuryakin maintained a straight face, not confirming or denying his actions.

"Hmm, quite." Waverly mumbled.


	4. Wild Kingdom

Napoleon let out a blood curdling scream in the middle of the night, cursing as he realized there was a set of needle-like claws embedded in his forearm.

"God Dammit Illya," he muttered.

Moments later his partner charged into his living room, his weapon in his hand. He opened the light switch, seeing Napoleon sitting wide-eyed on the sofa, holding a reddening arm that had on it, some tiny pinpoints of blood.

"What happened?"

"You and your damned stray cats, that's what happened."

"I do not understand."

"I was sleeping as sound as a baby, and I know that kitten of yours was laying near me. All of a sudden I feel these claws latched onto me and the kitten is hanging from my arm, dangling off the edge of the sofa".

Illya chuckled. "She probably was in a deep sleep, and rolling over found herself falling. She grabbed on to the nearest thing to save herself, and that was you...kittens do that sometimes." Illya picked up the little black furball, as she was cowering in fear in the corner from Napoleon's outburst.

"Do you plan on keeping this one?" The American asked.

"No, I will adopt her out as soon as she has been tamed a little."

Solo grunted, "Next time my apartment is being painted, I think I'll opt for a hotel room. It's like Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom in here."

"Oh for goodness sake Napoleon, it is just a kitten..."


	5. Jack Spratt

Napoleon watched with interest as Illya trimmed every bit of fat from his t-bone steak before putting a lean morsel into his mouth and chewing it with relish.

"Since when don't you eat the fat? I've seen you wipe a plate clean and practically gnaw on the bone." Napoleon commented.

"True, there was a time I would do such a thing. It was what I was accustomed to back home. In Gorky I shared an apartment with a number of other people, with a communal pot for our food, usually just root vegetables, some blini every few weeks, if we were lucky, though bread was usually not a problem, nor was vodka. Those you could find at the State run stores, but not much else. We would pool our money to buy meat for the stew once a week. I usually got home late from my assignment, eavesdropping on scientists all day, and there was little left but gristle and bone in the pot. We were kept hungry, the government saw to that... so you learned to eat whatever was put in front of you."

He looked down at his juicy steak, with its side of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, with a side of carrots and peas.

"I have realized I no longer had to make do with the fat and bone...it is rather ghastly if you have never had to eat just that with turnips and potatoes." He laughed a little, "It was no wonder we washed it all down with copious amounts of vodka. The fat and bone from my steak tonight will not go to waste, as I will give it to the stray cats."

Napoleon nodded his head, listening carefully. "You know tovarisch, this reminds me of a child's nursery rhyme. "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean; and so between them both, you see, they licked the platter clean."

"Ah yes it is an English nursery rhyme, "Illya continued the poem. "Jack ate all the lean, Joan ate all the fat. The bone they picked it clean, Then gave it to the cat. Jack Sprat was wheeling, his wife by the barrow turned over and in she did pitch. Says Jack, "She'll be drowned!" But Joan did reply, "I don't think I shall, for the ditch it is quite dry."

"I never heard all that before," Napoleon said, not surprised at his partners addition to the rhyme.

"You forget, I lived in England for three years...one picks up these sort of odd things. It is interesting that there are are a number of historical interpretations of "Jack Sprat." One claims the rhyme refers to King Charles I and his queen, Henrietta Maria. When Charles declared war on Spain, the parliament "left him lean," failing to fund his cause. As a result, the King implemented an illegal tax without Parliament's consent "to get some fat" for his war effort."

"Another interpretation connects the rhyme to Richard the Lionheart , and his brother King John. John was married to Joan, the greedy daughter of the Earl of Gloucester, therein comes the reference "Joan ate all the fat." When Richard was taken hostage by by Duke Leopold, John had to leave the country destitute in order to raise the money for the ransom. So between John's desperation and Joan's greed, "they picked the platter clean..."

"And all this because I noted you trimmed the fat from your steak," Napoleon shook his head.

"You were the one who mentioned Jack Sprat," Illya smiled, spearing another piece of steak with his fork."

"Hmm, yes, so I did." Napoleon raised his glass of wine, saluting his partner, "Here's to Jack Sprat and lean steaks."

"Here here," Illya smiled.


	6. Cold? You think this is cold?

The wind chill brought the temperature down to a frigid -10 degrees and Napoleon Solo walked from his silver convertible parked across the street from the entrance to Del Floria's, flapping his arms against himself to keep warm.

He pulled up the collar to his overcoat, tucking one leather-gloved hand into his pocket as he turned the doorknob to the shop, hearing the welcoming tinkle of the brass bell.

Saluting his hello to the agent at the press, he removed his gloves and unbuttoned his coat as it was nicely warm inside, most likely because of the steam.

Napoleon turned as he heard the bell ring again, seeing his partner walk in just behind him.

Illya was dressed in a short black wool peacoat, with a thick black scarf wound around his neck and face, revealing only a slit with those blue eyes peeking out, eyes Solo could recognize any day. On his head was a black lambs wool Russian Ushanka with the ear flaps turned down. Such a hat, or a version of it was now the rage in the U.S. especially in the more rural parts of the country, so Kuryakin didn't stand out as looking particularly Russian. He wore no gloves on his hands...

"Please tell me you took a taxi here?" Napoleon watched as the black scarf was unwound and the coat unbuttoned, though the hat remained in place.

Illya cocked his head to one side. "Why do you ask that?" He nodded to the agent on duty as he walked towards the dressing room with his partner.

"Maybe because it's below zero out there tovarisch."

"To answer your question, I walked, and as to the temperature...that is a Spring day compared to winter temperatures in Soviet Union. There it has dropped to -30 and that was before a windchill was factored in. So your comment about the cold is..."

"Never mind," Napoleon sighed as he turned the hook.


	7. Pastrami on rye and other things...

Napoleon finally came out of his stupor; he'd been drugged and beaten bad enough for the doctor to order complete bed rest. Not trusting Solo to follow doctors orders, he was confined to the medical until released to desk duty.

Illya was there when his partner first woke up, and had been in and out since then. There was no real need for to sit with Napoleon, nothing life threatening for once that required constant vigil. 

He knew Illya would be back eventually with lunch, but in the meantime, he had a sponge bath to look forward to. He sat there smiling with a lustful grin, wondering which nurse would be the one to complete the task. Would it be Adrienne, Stephanie, Charlene, Dawn..ah the choices were all good, and they were all on duty today. "Down boy," he told his libido. "Remember the doctor's orders."

Kuryakin was on his way back, bringing Napoleon a pastrami on rye sandwich, as nothing on the menu appealed to his partner, especially the thought of that awful green jello that accompanied every tray of food while in Medical.

He overheard two nurses arguing quietly back and forth, something about a sponge bath and who'd get to do it. Being the good agent that he was, he paused, eavesdropping on the conversation.

"Aw come on Linda," Adrienne whined, you always get to give him his sponge bath, I never get a chance."

"Stop acting like a child will you?" Dawn spoke firmly, "You took care of him last time he was here."

"No that was his nasty partner of his. I've never seen such a temper on someone who's usually so quiet. He really hates being in a hospital bed doesn't he?"

Dawn's demeanor changed at the mention of the Russian. "Well that's because he's alone, if you get my drift."

"You and the Russian?" Adrienne blurted out.

"Shush, keep your voice down, and you better not blab. I don't want the whole world to know and neither does he."

"I won't say a word, I promise," the nurse whispered.

"Ahem," Illya cleared his throat, alerting them to his presence.

Dawn turned a deep shade of red, afraid Illya had caught her gossiping, one thing he detested. "Um hi Illya," she said sheepishly.

"Hello Nurse Lawson, Nurse Kingsley." He ignored what he'd overheard Dawn talking about, giving her a pass just this once, and focused on the other topic, the sponge bath. " I take it you were speaking about my partner Mr. Solo."

"Urm, yes we were." Adrienne said shyly. "We were arguing about who was going to give him his sponge bath."

"Why ladies, I have a perfect solution to keep the both of you from arguing over it, at least this time." Illya smiled; he was feeling up to making a little mischief today...

.

Nurse Lawson walked into Napoleon's room. "All right, it's time for your sponge bath, as if you didn't know already," she said most cheerfully.

"Yes it's something I do look forward to, as it's so lonely all by myself here in this... bed," he poured it on syrupy sweet, just like molasses.

"Poor baby. Well just slip out of your hospital gown, and no, don't pull down the sheets,"she warned. "Roll over onto your stomach and close your eyes. I'm going to give you a little massage before your sponge bath, to help you relax."

"Can't I lay on my back? I'm sure that would be more enjoyable? Napoleon practically purred.

"NO!" Adrienne raised her voice, then lowered it. "Noooo. Now let's go Mister, roll over, please."

"Whatever you say," Solo resigned himself. He felt massage oil poured onto his back and strong fingers digging into his muscles.

"Ohhh, that's really good, yeah, ummmm. That's the spot, right there. Ahhhh. You really have talented hands don't you...mmm once I get out of medical you can show me what other talents you have, if you like."

Napoleon suddenly detected the odor of pastrami, and craned his neck around. The person doing his massage was definitely not Nurse Lawson, and as he glanced to the door of his room, there stood Illya holding a brown paper bag, flanked on either side by Nurse Lawson and Nurse Kingsley; the three of them grinning ear to ear.

His masseuse was none other than Charlie Wiggins, one of the medical technicians.

"Hey what's going on here?" Solo blurted out.

Everyone broke into a fit of laughter as Napoleon's face flushed, getting the joke was on him.

"Well fine then, Charlie," he spoke with assurance in his voice, calling their bluff," finish the massage, but definitely no sponge bath, understood?"

"Gee, no problem Mr. Solo."

Illya and the nurses laughed even harder.

"Don't worry," Adrienne said, "I'll still give you your sponge bath."

Knowing his partner was at the root of this Solo called out, "Just for this tovarisch, I'm not reimbursing you for the pastrami sandwich." 

"Fine," Illya sniped,"I will eat it myself then."

Napoleon thought about that for a second. "Hey partner mine, I'll trade you my sponge bath with Nurse Adrienne, for the sandwich.''

Illya looked sorely tempted to say yes as he glanced over at her.

"Napoleon Solo!" Nurse Lawson yelled, "I'm not a bargaining chip!"

"Okay, okay, you got me," he surrendered,"I'll pay you Illya, just give me my sandwich, I'm starving..."


	8. Mother Nature

Napoleon walked into the commissary, rubbing his hands together to warm them as they were ice cold. The boilers in the sub-basement of UNCLE headquarters in New York were on the fritz, leaving the building without heat. Help was on the way, but not soon enough to suit most of the personnel working today.

The unseasonable temperatures outside had been in the sixties, odd for the end of January, but took a nosedive with a cold front that moved down from Canada, running head on into a warm front that had come up from the South that gave them the warm day. Mother Nature, to say the least, was being fickle.

He glanced around, seeing everyone wrapped in bulky cardigan sweaters and scarves, sort of spoiling his view of the lovely ladies, and what cold air could do to them. He ushered that lustful thought from his head, thinking more about being cold himself and joined the queue waiting for a nice bowl of hot chicken soup.

The doors opened behind him, and in walked his partner, sporting a short sleeve black t-shirt, with his black suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

He joined Napoleon in line, but when it came his turn, he ordered a bowl of chocolate ice cream, instead of the expected soup.

"Are you for real?" Napoleon asked him as they headed to their usual table carrying their trays, with Illya's jacket now draped over a bare arm.

"What is it you are referring to Napoleon?" He asked as he put his tray on the table.

"Illya the heat is out in headquarters, everyone's bundled up and you're in a sleeveless shirt, jacketless and eating ice cream, please!"

The Russian shook his head, not wanting to talk about the weather since Napoleon still did not get that this was not cold weather, like back in Soviet Union."

"So you're not going to belittle our weather in favor of that back home?"

"No."

"Thank goodness," Napoleon sighed, spooning up a generous mouthful of chicken soup for his American soul.


	9. Going Batty

Napoleon and Illya walked carefully into the narrow cave; their intelligence reports telling them it was a back door into a THRUSH satrap that needed blowing up.

The farther in they walked, using their small pocket flashlights, the more the floor of the cave began to feel soft and rather slippery.

Illya pointed his flashlight at his feet, dreading what he suspected. "Chyort, ya boyalsya etogo , blya guano letuchey myshi!" He cursed vehemently in his native language.

"Bat guano?" Napoleon directed his light to the cave ceiling just a few feet above their heads.

"No do not do that!" Illya tried not to shout, but it was too late. The light had startled thousands of bats that took off, engulfing him and his partner.

The Russian turned tail, running for the exit to the cave with his arms flailing about his head, yelling at the top of his lungs. Napoleon was following not far behind him.

The two of them burst out of the darkness, coming into the light of the setting sun and ducking as the colony of bats swooped over them and up into the forest canopy.

Napoleon rolled to his side still laying on the ground, stifling his fit of laughter.

"What is so funny?" The Russian demanded.

"If you could have seen yourself running with your arms swinging all over the place... you sounded like you were screaming like a girl!"

"I was not, I was waving my arms to keep the bats away and I was merely voicing my concern over being bitten again, as you recall I had to undergo rabies treatment after Count Zarkov leashed his pets on me. Did you forget...I do hate bats."

"You were screaming like a girl, I swear."

"Was not."

"Were too." It took five minutes for Napoleon to gain his composure while his partner fumed.

"Are you done now? We do have a satrap to blow up, if you recall," Illya said, his voice full of sarcasm.

Solo nodded his head, trying to hold back his guffaws.

"You are not going to let me forget this are you Napoleon?"

"Not a chance in hell," he smiled.


	10. Boogaloo

"Come with me Napoleon, I guarantee you will enjoy yourself," Illya waved his hand for his partner to follow him. The blond was dressed casually in a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans, an equally snug black t-shirt, and had a pair of sunglasses resting on top of his head.

Napoleon's idea of casual was a polo shirt, sports jacket and pants and that suited him on this fine summer day. He looked around at the way people passing by were dressed, suddenly thinking he stood out a bit...

"I don't know, street festivals and open air markets are not really my thing. I prefer fine dining and shopping on Fifth Avenue, thank you."

"Yes you may prefer that but your wallet cannot support your habits, given how often you borrow money from me." The Russian smiled.

Napoleon was taken aback by that statement."I pay you back don't I?"

"Yes you do...eventually." Illya paused, hearing Latin music in the distance, and for a moment, went into a quick Mambo step, swaying his hips to the music while moving his arms gracefully in time with rhythms. He stopped, raising his nose to the breeze as it was filled with the scents of all sorts of delicious smelling foods."

He looked at his partner. "Does that not call to you?"

"Hmm, getting your money's worth at Arthur Murray's I see."

"Napoleon!" Illya shook his head.

Solo shrugged, and simply followed his partner to humor him, as it was rare that Illya became that animated by something enough to want company.

They were there in the middle of it within a few minutes, La Marqueta, under the elevated railway tracks between 111th Street and 116th Street on Park Avenue in in East Harlem. There were hundreds of vendors, selling anything from food, traditional medicines, recordings of Latin music, and clothing to supplies for charms and curses for those into such things.

Illya headed straight to one of the food vendors, telling his partner to wander if he wished.

"Either eat with me or go have a good time. I am sure you will find something to interest you," he looked at his watch. "Meet me by the band stand in a half hour as there is a group of musicians I want to hear, their style of music is quite infectious...it is called "Boogaloo."

"Boogaloo, never heard of it. You're not kidding me are you?"

"No I am not, " Illya tried to not look annoyed. "It is The style was a fusion of African American Rhythm and Blues and Soul with Mambo and Son Montuno."

"Okay chum, whatever makes you happy." Napoleon cringed; Mantovani was more his style, though his partner was a jazz lover; he was also open to a lot of musical genres, this Latin sound just wasn't the Solo style.

Illya ordered cuchifritos and a drink called ajonjolí, made from sesame seeds. He finished his food as the musicians began to warm up on the stage, and finally the band started playing. Illya searched the crowd for his partner, not able to enjoy the music until he was sure Napoleon was all right. Still the sound was enticing and he found himself swaying to the rhythms, suddenly dancing with a dark-haired beauty who wiggled herself up next to him as partner.

Together she and the Russian, spun and rocked to the wild rhythms, smiling their enjoyment to each other.

When the set was over she disappeared before Illya could ask her name, and again he resumed searching the crowds for his partner. Finally Solo appeared with two gorgeous Latinas, each one holding onto his arms, and smiling as they threw back their dark haired manes of hair laughing at what Napoleon had said to amuse them.

Illya couldn't help but burst out laughing. "I see you found something to catch your eye after all."

"To say the least, partner mine. Ummm...thanks for convincing me to come along." Yet there was hesitation in his voice.

"Do not tell me, you wish to borrow money," Illya stared at him.

Napoleon nodded, and the Russian of course, pulled out his wallet.

"I'll give it back to you next payday."

"I will add it to your account," The Russian replied dryly, watching the ladies man, Napoleon Solo, stroll off with his companions.

The Salsa band started their set, and out of nowhere Illya's dance partner reappeared.

"Hola de nuevo guapo_ hello handsome," she smiled.

"Hola de nuevo, bastante dama_hello again pretty lady," He smiled back at her, forgetting about his partner for now as he swayed and thrust his hips to the Latin beat with his lovely companion who matched him move for move...


	11. Food Glorious Food!

"That meal was really terrible, I thought diners were supposed to have good fare," Illya complained. "Is that not why truck drivers frequent these sort of places?" He stared at the sign in front of the Silver Cloud diner that read "Truckers Welcome~Great Food."

Napoleon looked at him, debating whether to get pulled into this conversation or not, but finally relented.

"Well if you hadn't ordered half the menu then you might have enjoyed what you'd eaten. I for one found my cheese burger delightful, along with the french fries, and the coffee was excellent," Napoleon countered.

"That is because you drown everything with catsup, with the exception of the coffee," Illya shot back. "My soup was too thin, the meatloaf dry, the coleslaw... watery, the rice undercooked and the beans...well they were flavorless. The tea was weak, the lettuce in the salad, limp, and the dressing was a mystery flavor. The only thing that was passable was the apple pie ala mode."

You know for a fellow who'll eat just about anything, that's a lot to have wrong with one meal. Any other complaints you have to make before we get going," Solo asked as the two got into the car, preparing to depart.

"I have gas," the Russian grimaced.

Without a word, Napoleon calmly put down the top on the convertible...


	12. I think I've just been insulted

Illya sat beside his partner,setting down his hot mug on their usual table in the back corner of the commissary.

Napoleon raised his nose, getting a whiff as the scent from his partner's beverage wafted towards him.

"That's not hot chocolate is it?" He said, though contents of Illya's mug did resembled it.

"No it is, ummm, what you call here Ovaltine."

"Ovaltine? That's a kids drink," Napoleon snickered.

"I remember Captain Midnight's Adventure Theatre hawking it on television back in the 1950s. I still see it advertised all the time...wait, don't tell me you broke down and got a TV and fell victim to mass advertising?"

"The answer is no on both counts. Ovaltine is not an American product merely marketed for children, it is a drink having it's origins in Berne, Switzerland, where it is known by its original name, Ovomaltine...ovum from the Latin for "egg", and malt, originally its main ingredients. It also has whey as well as coco and is quite a refreshing change from simple hot chocolate."

"I never knew that, "Napoleon said as he sipped his black coffee. "Learn something new everyday..."

"One could only hope," his partner mumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Solo went on the defensive.

Illya looked him directly in the eyes. "Is it not good to learn something new? I myself try to do that at least once a day."

"Oh, okay...never mind," Napoleon answered suspiciously, not quite sure if he'd been insulted or not.


	13. Some days you just can...

Napoleon Solo would have enjoyed this pastoral scene, with the green fields, and trees that were beginning to show signs of spring. It was a view that he rarely gave himself time to take in, as he was usually being chased somewhere by someone or vice versa.

He slowed the silver convertible, not to look at the scenery; he was searching, scanning the landscape for signs of his wayward partner.

Illya was supposed to have met him at the tall oak standing like a sentinel in the middle of the field, but there was no sign the Russian had been there at all. That was not good. Once he had secreted himself in a nearby farm, run by Thrush, and gotten the needed intel, he was to return to the appointed place and the appointed time.

UNCLE knew THRUSH was up to something there and Illya was to find out what. The only reason he'd gone in alone was because they had only a single blue Thrush jumpsuit and beret and for once it fit Illya, and not his partner.

"Damn!" Solo cursed, "I knew this was a bad idea." He stood, pressing a palm against the tree trunk as he bowed his head.

"What was a bad idea?" Illya's voice came from behind, startling the senior agent.

"You're late," Solo mumbled, "I was getting worried."

"Napoleon, I am perhaps five minutes late at most, now if I was say, a half-hour to an hour late, then I might worry,"Illya countered, handing his partner a mini-camera.

"You're never late, so I guess you've spoiled me," the American smiled.

Illya laughed softly. "And I have become accustomed to you always being late, so we are a good pair are we not...sort of a yin and yang."

That struck Napoleon as being so true, they did complement each other, and he supposed that was why they made a good team.

"So what did you find in there tovarisch?"

"My uniform did not permit me as much access as we had hoped. Everything is locked up tighter than a..." he paused, suddenly unsure of the analogy.

"Drum?"

"Yes that is it, tighter than a drum. Special identification is required to go from one section of the farm to another. I stole this one," he pointed to the card clipped to his uniform. "but was not able to get very far with it. Everyone was too visible for me to have acquired a second identification. The photographs I took were of the comings and goings between the different barns and they only thing I was able to see were a lot of wooden crates being moved. The photos, once analyzed in headquarters, may give us some details that my eyes might have missed."

"I suppose they're better than nothing," Napoleon concluded.

"That remains to be seen,"Illya groused. His attitude suddenly changed as a thought crossed his mind. "We could just go back and blow the place up." That made him smile.

"Sorry chum, no big booms today, not until we find out what's going on in there."

The partners headed off to the car, and in turn back east to headquarters; Napoleon feeling disappointed the mission, so far, had left them with basically nothing, and Illya downhearted about not being able to blow anything up...for now.


	14. Truces and Schemes

It was freezing cold, literally, with the windchill bringing the temperature down to well below zero. A light snowfall was falling on a Pennsylvania landscape, already blanketed in white. Had it not been for the fact that they were being pursued, Solo and Kuryakin might have paused to admire the tranquil setting.

The UNCLE agents had taken refuge in a log cabin-style hunting lodge as it was too cold to continue their escape on the snow mobiles, even with two THRUSH goons on their trail.

The cabin door was securely barred, and Napoleon in his favorite red and black check hunting cap wearing the ear flaps down, and his matching woolen jacket wrapped himself in crocheted afghan, huddling in a worn armchair. His partner wore a fur Ushanka on his head, also with the ear flaps down, along with a dark green parka, as he sat on the sofa pulling an American Indian style woven blanket around his legs.

There was a fireplace in the sparely furnished living room, decorated with trophy heads and antlers, and in the bedroom was a cast iron pot belly stove. Except for the a sofa, and the padded chair; there was not really anything to burn.

The problem was, they had no firewood, and could only take some comfort in the fact that the THRUSH agents pursuing them were freezing their asses off outside in the woodshed...

"We need to get some firewood in here tovarisch, otherwise we're going to make it," Napoleon said, with his teeth chattering.

"I agree," Illya responded, "but the wood is out there with our company."

Solo smiled, as he'd come up with a plan. He'd offer the agents a truce.

They could come in and sleep in the bedroom with a nice warm fire in the stove, as long as the UNCLE agents could bring in firewood. He and Illya would stay in the living room and would use the fireplace for their heat source. It made sense, as they could all end up dying it the cold.

The THRUSH accepted the terms, and gladly put their guns away in favor of being safe and warm for the night. What tomorrow would bring would be another story.

The fires were lit, and the THRUSH agents retreated to the safety of the bedroom. Solo and Kuryakin took turns standing watch and sleeping on the sofa in the living room, just as a precaution.

Just before dawn, Illya woke his partner to stand guard, while he disappeared outside. The sun was just starting to show itself in the sky. with a spectacular golden sunrise, as it had stopped snowing.

The Russian uncovered their snowmobiles, and looked to the ones driven by their pursuers.

A few minutes later, he quietly opened the door, beckoning Solo to join him, and together they started up their machines; taking off in the direction of the rising sun and safety.

The goons heard the engines roar, and ran out into the snow, still putting on their coats,ready to give pursuit, but found their hopes dashed. The stood snarling and cursing the UNCLE agents, watching them disappear into the distance.

Napoleon and Illya drove for sometime, and finally pulled to a stop when they were sure no one was following them.

"I don't get it?" Solo said. "Why aren't they coming after us?"

"This is why," Illya said, proudly holding up several spark plug wires."

"Oh very sneaky Mr. Kuryakin." Napoleon happily grinned.

"Thank you Mr. Solo."


	15. Hiding Places

"The wheels on the bus go round and round,

round and round, round and round.

The wheels on the bus go round and round,

all through the town,

The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish

Swish, swish, swish;

Swish, swish, swish.

The wipers on the bus go Swish, swish, swish,

all day long

The horn on the bus go Beep, beep, beep;

Beep, beep, beep;

Beep, beep, beep.

The horn on the bus go Beep, beep, beep,

all day long..."

Illya watched from above, peering through the observation window at his partner. Napoleon was wrapped in a straight jacket, though for the life of him he had no idea why, as the American presented no threat to himself or others. Solo was sitting in a corner of the padded room, rocking back and forth and simply singing to himself in his usual off-key voice.

"What is that song? Illya turned to the psychiatrist standing next to him.

"It's an American children's song, generally sung while on bus trips. It seems Mr. Solo has regressed to his childhood. There's no chemicals or drugs in his system and I'm guessing he must have experienced a terrible shock for his mind to seek shelter that far back, to a more innocent time in his life."

"Then if he is being child-like, there should be no need for the straight jacket, and I for one will be removing it," Illya snapped.

"Mr. Kuryakin!" The doctor tried to protest, but the Russian had already headed out the door and downstairs to the room where Solo was being kept.

He stepped inside, walking slowly towards his partner, not wishing to startle him.

Napoleon looked up at him in wide-eyed wonder.

"Hello," he flashed the Solo smile. "Who are you?"

"My name is Illya...you do not remember me?" He asked, using a soothing tone of voice.

"No. Am I supposed to? My grandfathers have told me I should always remember people's names, but I'm sorry I don't remember yours."

"That is all right, eventually you will. We work together."

"Work...you mean play don't you?"

It was Illya's turn to smile. "Yes I supposed that is true too."

"You have long hair," Napoleon observed.

"So I have been told," Illya winked at his partner.

"Do you want to play with me now?"

"Of course," Illya replied, "but first I think we need take off your jacket as you seem to have gotten terribly tangled up in it."

"Yeah, I can't move my arms too good." Napoleon said innocently," I'd like that a lot 'cause then I can take care of my itch."

Once the offending straight jacket was removed Solo scratched his armpits with a sigh. "That feels good."

"I am sure it does," Illya chuckled.

"I have a sailboat you know." Napoleon whispered, as if it were a big secret. "My father doesn't like it. He's in the army and I have to hide my boat when he's home."

"Yes I know, it is called the Pursang and I have sailed with you on it, but I get seasick so I do not go sailing with you often." Illya tried jogging his partner's memory, though he avoided referring to Darius Solo, as father and son as adults did not always get along.

"It's not a real one silly, it's the kind you sail on a lake...my grandfather the Admiral gave it to me. I like that name, Pursang. I gotta remember that. My Aunt Amy says maybe I can get a real one when I grow up and travel all over the world like she does. She's in Egypt right now, I think."

"You will." Illya whispered.

Kuryakin sat down beside the American once he seemed comfortable enough with his presence, and the two proceeded to engage in a conversation on a broad number of subjects, from snow, Easter baskets, flying kites, Napoleon being afraid of the water, liking girls and eventually the topic of sex.

That made Illya smile, thinking Napoleon must have been one precocious boy.

Hours passed as their talk continued; at one point Napoleon began yawning, and before Illya knew it, his partner was leaning against him, fast asleep. When Solo awoke it seemed little bits of his memory had come back, and his childhood personality disappeared. He was an older version now, and finally Napoleon's adult personality reemerged and he was himself again.

"Thanks tovarisch, I was pretty lost there for a while." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if he'd emerged from an even longer sleep.

Illya took a chance, asking him the important question.

"Something happened to you, and you retreated away from it, into yourself. I have never known you to retreat Napoleon...what happened?"

Solo shook his head. "I can't talk about it right now. Maybe someday."

"When you are ready my friend." Illya clasped a hand on his partner's shoulder in support, and gave him a hand up from the padded floor.

"These things I understand all too well, and if you never tell me, that too is all right."

"Thanks buddy."

 


	16. Warmth is a Good Thing

Illya padded barefoot into his small kitchen, putting his teakettle on the gas range, and readied his tea leaves for steeping. He preferred it this way to using tea bags, though he would from time to time use them when it was convenient.

He tried getting the commissary to use fresh tea leaves, but the cook preferred convenience over flavor and that was that.

As he poured the hot water into his tea-pot, he watched as the steam rose into the chilly air.

He always kept his apartment on the cool side, even in winter as that's what he was accustomed to, having grown up in the Soviet Union. His one decadent indulgence, however, were long hot showers. Those were something almost unheard of back home where he lived.

The apartment he shared with six other adults also had a communal bathroom at the end of the hall sharing it with three families. The old cast-iron clawfoot tub had buckets of boiling water poured into it continuously as the tub was used by the occupants of each apartment; with more boiling water added as each person climbed into the tub for a quick scrub. Every Friday was bath day...

He'd recalled and old German idiom that was most applicable, "Nicht das Kind mit dem Bade ausschütten, as it was the children who were the last to be bathed..."Do not throw the baby out with the bath water." It alway made him think of that flat where he lived in Moskva, and those who shared it with him.

A familiar coded knock came at his door, and Napoleon let himself in. Illya had set up a personal alarm system for himself and had given his partner the code along with a key.

Alexander Waverly and UNCLE Operations liked the idea of it so much, that a work order had been issued for alarms to be installed in every UNCLE owned apartment. And thanks to his ingenuity, Illya would be supervising a good part of the installation.

Napoleon walked into the kitchen, wearing a heavy cardigan sweater, with a scarf wrapped around his neck. "You know you could turn up the heat a little bit...it's not like you have to pay for it. You know warmth is a good thing sometimes.: He took a gulp of coffee from the mug he'd brought with him, knowing his partner only kept tea on hand.

"This is what I am used to Napoleon. It was cold where I grew up, that was the way it was. I must admit though I do like your change of seasons here, as they are not as extreme, except I suppose for your late summer."

"That's true tovarisch, you don't do well with heat do you, but still Illya..." Napoleon said, looking at a small thermometer on the wall. "it's forty degrees in here, can't you turn it up just a little?"

Illya smiled at his partner's entreaty. "All right, for you I will." He got up, heading to the steam radiator and turned the handle. Within minutes it was clanging, banging and hissing as it warmed.

A half hour later Illya looked at the thermometer. "There, it is now fifty degrees. Is that better?"

"Just peachy..." Napoleon sneered. "Remind me to leave an extra sweater and some gloves down here."

 


	17. Spy vs. Spy

Napoleon Solo awoke in a completely white room, void of furniture with only a full length mirror on the wall. A doorway of sorts was only visible because of the outline of its pushed himself up from the floor, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Napoleon stared at his reflection, finding that he too was completely in white, wearing a long jacket that belled out at the hem, he had a strangely pointed fedora with a black band on his head, but the most surprising addition to his outfit was a long, conical 'thing' attached like a false nose over his own, seemingly held in place by an elastic strap.

He grabbed hold of it, trying to pull it away from his face, but the ridiculous contrivance wouldn't move. Napoleon quickly gave up on that and focused his attention to extricating himself from the room.

He slapped his pockets, hoping he might have been given some sort of tools, perhaps as part of this charade.

Napoleon felt something, and searched his pocket, finding a miniature stack of red dynamite with a time, neatly tucked away.

The clock was ticking, with less than a minute to go...

Hurriedly he placed it against the door, and boom! There was a small explosion, but substantial enough to blow the door wide open.

Solo stepped out amidst the smoke, finding himself in a darkened room, and unable to see, he felt his way along the walls.

"Ouch," a voice called from the floor,"You are stepping on me, you oaf!" A familiar Russian voice called out.

"Illya?"

"In the flesh, Napoleon. Where are we?"

"Haven't a clue, you know what...follow me back through the door I just blew. At least there's light in there."

Illya did as his partner instructed, and as soon as he became visible, he saw that he was dressed identically to Solo, but all in black, and sported the strange nose piece as well.

"What are these ridiculous outfits?" He blurted out, attempting to remove the nose-cone, and like Napoleon, he had no success, but thinking that whoever had done this at least got the colors right for each of them.

"You don't recognize them?" Napoleon asked.

"If I did, I would not have asked," Illya shot back.

"They're characters from a comic strip in 'Mad Magazine' called Spy versus Spy. The cartoon is a commentary on its Cuban expatriate creators views of Castro's regime and the CIA."

They're two spies, who are completely identical except for the fact that one is dressed in white and the other black, and are constantly at odds with each other, using a variety of booby-traps to inflict harm on the other. They sort of take turns at winning...it's a pretty amusing series."

"Amusing not withstanding, I wonder how it is we are now in the guise of these characters, and to what purpose?" Illya asked while walking around the white room, lightly rapping on the walls.

"You would not happen to have another explosive device on you?" The Russian asked.

"No, but if you check one of your pockets, I'll be there's a little black explosive cannon ball with a fuse there," Napoleon chuckled, "That's if whoever is doing this is following the cartoon strip correctly.

Illya reached into his pocket, finding exactly what his partner described.

"Hmm, I need a match."

"Ask and ye shall receive," Napoleon offered the box he'd found in his pocket and used to light the fuse on his dynamite.

Illya's eyebrows raised, but that was his only reaction he gave as he took the matches and lit his pseudo bomb and setting it beside the wall where he'd heard a hollow sound when he'd knocked on it.

When the smoke cleared, another room was revealed, this time full of startled people and a lone, beautiful woman dressed in grey.

Solo grappled with a guard, knocking him out and grabbing his rifle, much to the consternation of the grey lady, he pointed it at her.

"Tsk tsk," Mr. Solo, you're not playing your part correctly, she pouted.

Napoleon approached her, grabbing her at the waist, planting one heck of a kiss on her lips and when he released her, she leaned back against a desk in a daze...

"Come on Illya let's get out of this comic strip before something else happens," he said, opening the only door in the room.

Illya followed obediently and as the two made it out to the very public street, he had only one question.

"And your plan for removing these noses is..." he asked, grabbing and slightly bending the plastic proboscis.

"Oops. Well just hold your hat down in front to cover it I guess?"

And so our two brave heroes headed down the street, catching more stares than they would care to admit.

A passerby, holding a Mad Magazine. caught their attention and asked for an autograph...

 


	18. An Unexpected Event

Illya Kuryakin pressed himself back against a brick wall, he was far enough from the flames that engulfed the room, cutting him off from the door, and his escape.

He'd set his explosives around the building, the timers adjusted to give him enough time to get out as they cascaded. What he hadn't counted on, were munitions being stored and their exploding, set off his own devices out of sequence. The building shook and a wall of flame came barreling down the corridor behind him.

He dashed into a side room, and found himself trapped, surrounded by flames with no means of escape. Illya had no choice, and pulling his special he readied to dart himself to save him from feeling the pain of being burned alive.

The old fear of Sepkov and the ovens, ingrained in him from his training with the GRU flashed through his mind. No, he would not let himself to feel that agony.

The heat was stifling, the air acrid; making it harder to breathe and he closed his eyes, pointing the muzzle of his gun to his throat...that was when he heard it.

It was the wooshing sound of a fire extinguisher. The door opened, and the air was filled with the billowing cloud of white gases, putting out the flames that encircled the exit.

A woman stood there, covered in soot and her eyes wild with anger.

"Well are you coming you insipid Russian you," Angelique La Chien called to him.

Illya rose, diving for the door and out into the hallway. "Why?" He coughed.

"Because you little fool, if I were to let you die that would positively ruin everything with your partner, and I do still adore my games with him. Napoleon would never forgive me, as a matter of fact he would most likely kill me. Either way I have no desire to die, so are you coming with me or not?"

They dropped to the floor, crawling along together to avoid the smoke, only rising to their feet when they were able to make the last-ditch run to the front door as pieces of the building began to drop around them.

They burst into the street, with Kuryakin collapsing to the curb, his lungs heaving and coughing from the smoke.

The fire department and emergency squads were already there, and in moments an oxygen mask was draped over his nose and mouth. He lifted it to speak

. "There was a blonde woman with me," he gasped. "...is she all right?"

"Sorry Mister, you're the only one we found so far. Now you need to stop talking and put the mask back on."

Illya was checked for injuries and finally loaded on a gurney for a trip to the hospital to b treated for smoke inhalation. His thoughts were on Angelique, wondering if she were still alive but knowing the elusive THRUSH agent, she most likely was. She too seemed to have nine lives...

A truce of sorts would exist between them now, but it would only last until he could thank her. After that, all bets were off...again.

 


	19. These Things Happen

Illya Kuryakin was a familiar face in the medical wing at UNCLE's New York headquarters, as he held the record for the highest number of stays there, but his partner Napoleon Solo wasn't far behind him.

They were the best of the best, and were known for taking high risks when it came to winning the game, and did what had to be done. More often than not, it resulted in one of not both of them being hospitalized.

The frequency of their visits earned them reserved beds; the staff of physicians figuring that a familiar bed in a familiar room would help with the healing process for these two men. And it helped protect the nursing staff, keeping the two men separated as they could be quite hellish when it came to being confined in Medical. The Russian, however, was the worst of the two, and was known to hurl things at the unsuspecting duty nurses.

Eventually they became used to his temper tantrums and learned how to control him with a simple threat of a shot in his keister to put him to sleep. Illya became somewhat cooperative when that sort of threat was issued, but sometimes it still didn't stop him.

There was one time he wanted out of Medical so desperately that he almost walked out naked into the corridors, despite the poor nurse's pleas. Everyone was sure he took delight in that torment...

This time, however, it was the Russians turn to be confined to his hospital bed. Napoleon had waited until his partner regained consciousness, as the two men had developed a habit of sitting a vigil of sorts over each other when only one of them returned unscathed from a mission. Once Solo had seen Illya's baby blues, he allowed himself to go get a sandwich and coffee, sensing it as going to be a long night.

Illya, according to the doctors, was not doing well. They'd seen him recover almost miraculously from the worst of injuries, and deemed he had the constitution of a horse, but this time his body was not springing back.

He woke up, unable to speak and was tormented by painful tremors that had started with his head, and eventually spread throughout his entire body. Every time he tried to move, he felt pain as his nervous system was being attacked by some unseen force.

The doctors, in conjunction with research and development, were busy analyzing the myriad of chemicals that had been injected into the Russian's body, as a startling number of punctures wounds were evident on his arms. There were so many drugs in his system that could cause adverse reactions to any pain medications; they were forced not to give him any.

It was a tough sight for anyone seeing him as he bore his pain in silence, but not by choice, as the drugs in his system had rendered him mute.

The nurses had worked out a system, keeping Illya's movements to a minimum. One blink for yes, two for no. That was about the best he could manage at the moment.

Illya scanned the room with his eyes, looking for his friend and partner, disappointed he wasn't there at the moment.

Nurse Kelly looked at him, wishing she could make him feel better and watched in horror as Illya went into another series of spasms while he grimaced in silence, the severity of the pain showing on his usually placid face.

She stood at his bedside, not wanting to leave him at such an intense moment, and when the spasms subsided, she spoke softly to him.

"Illya is there anything I can get you?"

One blink.

"Water, food?"

Two blinks.

"Something in the room?"

One blink.

She looked around, not quite sure of what he wanted, the only thing drawing her attention were the lights.

"Do you want the lights turned down?"

One blink.

She did as he wished, dimming them and resigned herself to leave him be.

Several minutes later a figure walked in, silhouetted in the doorway from the backlight of the corridor. Illya followed him with his eyes, feeling some relief that is was most likely Napoleon. His partner's presence was a comfort and gave him a feeling of hope that somehow thing would get better.

He felt a hand take his, holding it reassuringly. Illya clenched it as he was wracked with another spasm of pain.

"It's all right, they've isolated what's doing this to you and R & D will have a counter agent ready in no time. Close your eyes and try to rest, it'll be over soon."

Illya tried to speak, but what came out was just a soft moan. He gave up trying and did as he was told, as one did not disobey a direct order from Alexander Waverly.

The Old Man sat there with his number two agent; though the Russian was his special project, he had a fondness for the young man that he would never admit to. Kuryakin was tenacious, and never a quitter ...that reminded Waverly of himself in his younger days with British Intelligence.

Napoleon walked into the room, surprised it was so dim, but there was enough light streaming in for him to make out the figure sitting at his partner's bedside.

It was a rare occasion that Waverly showed himself in Medical, much less to be visiting with an agent. He was the man at the top, in his inner sanctum, issuing the orders to his people and rarely did he mingle with them. Giving rise for Solo to repeat the phrase that is was 'lonely at the top.'

Napoleon cleared his throat, letting the Old Man know he was there, or so he thought.

"I know you're here Mr. Solo, no need to announce yourself." He spoke softly, his British accent hiding a barely perceptive Scottish burr.

Waverly stood, straightening his tweed jacket as he left the bedside.

"He's asleep, be careful not to wake him. I've received good news that Research and Development have come up with something to take care of this..."

"Yes sir, just told me," Napoleon whispered as his boss walked past him.

"Indeed." Waverly said, "you may resume your place at Mr. Kuryakin's side for now," he said, disappearing out the door.

At first when the strong bonds of friendship had begun to show between Solo and Kuryakin, Alexander Waverly was not happy about it, thinking it could compromise their missions together, and considered assigning them new partners. Yet for some reason he did not. This closeness seemed to help them function even better as a team; that came as a surprise as both men were known for being more loners, than team players.

The idea that Napoleon Solo, UNCLE's number one agent would sit vigil over his partner intrigued Waverly. Their bond was even stronger than he imagined.

Napoleon smiled just a little, watching Mr. Waverly disappear out the door, as it was rare the Old Man revealed the softer side of his personality.

Solo did as he was told, and returned to the chair at Illya's bedside, continuing his personal diligence. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last...

 


	20. Oops!

A knock on his door, one that Napoleon recognized instantly, made him growl under his breath. He was on the telephone enjoying a conversation with a gorgeous strawberry blonde he's met a few days ago at Penn Station.

They had drinks, flirted a lot, but an intimate little rendezvous with a bed just wasn't possible.

The telephone conversation was getting pretty steamy, bordering on phone sex, when the coded knock interrupted the mood.

"Hold on a minute Stella, there's someone at my door." He put the receiver down on the end table and rose to let his partner in.

Napoleon stared at the blond as he opened the door, noting he did not look very happy, but at the moment, the American's mind was on the woman at the other end of the telephone line.

"Illya, this really isn't a good time," he said, trying not to appear annoyed.

"Sorry, I will leave," Illya mumbled.

It was then Napoleon saw the rather large lump on his partner's head.

"What happened to you...I know you weren't on assignment. Get in here now." Napoleon quickly ushered him through the door, locking it behind him.

Illya wobbled a bit, and was guided to a chair by his partner. He raised his hand to his head, steadying himself.

"Napoleon I was mugged..."

"What? Wait a minute, you were... hold on." Napoleon picked up the telephone receiver. "Hi, I'm sorry, I gotta go...I have a sick friend."

"You have to be kidding me," Stella snarled, "that's one of the oldest lines in the book. Is there another woman there with you?"

"No, ummm, I really do have a sick friend..."

"Click."

He raised his eyebrows, not expecting that at all, and shook himself free of his surprise. Napoleon went to his freezer, pulling out some ice cubes and putting them in a pack for Illya's head; grabbed the bottle of vodka reserved there for his partner, and picked up a glass from a kitchen cabinet along the way back to the living room.

"Now tell me from the beginning," He handed Illya the ice bag and his drink.

The Russian downed his vodka and took a deep breath before recounting the event as it had transpired.

"I was walking home from a jazz club in the village and had not sensed that I was being followed. Out of nowhere someone came up behind me and hit me on the head, most likely with a billy club. I went down, but was not out, and as I reached for my weapon, I was hit again. When I woke up, my Special and wallet were gone."

"Wow. Considering all the dangerous things we've faced, to get mugged is sort of embarrassing, I would imagine." Napoleon poured another drink for him.

"That is an understatement, and all of headquarters will know about it as I will have to report the stolen gun, as well as my UNCLE ID."

"Yep, gonna be embarrassing all right," Napoleon tried not to smile..

"Not funny."

"Yes it actually is, in a way."

"Just wait until it happens to you."

"Not a chance," Napoleon grinned this time. "I have the Solo luck."

"Yeah right blah blah blah,"Illya grumbled, "Now pour me another drink please?"

 


	21. A Little Maneuvering

The two helicopters swooped in on the compound, with two dozen men dressed in black carrying their carbines, and armed to the hilt with smoke and gas grenades.

They hopped to the ground as soon as they were low enough and charged a dilapidated building in the middle of nowhere, fanning out as they began to take rapid fire from the occupants.

Napoleon Solo signalled to his second, indicating for him and his men to head right, while Solo took center, and the third team took the left flank; all coordinating their efforts to reach one central location.

One by one they picked off the masked occupants, and Solo headed down a long colonnade supporting an overhang; he was the first to reach the goal, a single rusted metal door.

"Ready," Napoleon raised his hand in silence, giving the to this men as he kicked in the door. The sole occupant cried out in a guttural language as he was shot down, but not before releasing a grenade, tossing it at the UNCLE agents. As it exploded, the room filled with red gas.

They were done.

"You are dead," Illya Kuryakin called out, removing the mask from his face as he rolled over on the floor, examining the red spatters on his chest from the paint-filled dummy bullets.

"So are you," Napoleon said, giving him a hand up.

"That is the purpose of the exercise, killing me and my men, but not getting yourself killed in the process. There was a hesitation on your part when you opened the door; it allowed me time to reach for my grenade."

A familiar voice came over a loudspeaker. "Gentlemen, that was the worst time yet. Change your positions and we'll run through it again." It was Jules Cutter and he didn't sound happy.

Napoleon threw his head back with a moan.

"I heard that Solo...what are you doing, getting too old to handle a bunch of new recruits?" He taunted the senior agent.

"No, Jules," he decided to go back at him and called out.

"The problem with this exercise is it's too predictable. We've done it so many times that we're anticipating everything. The element of surprise is gone."

There was silence until Cutter appeared out of nowhere through the doorway behind Napoleon and Illya.

"Okay Solo, come up with a scenario."

Napoleon smiled as he was the master of the impromptu strategy.

"How about a jungle assault, some guerilla warfare perhaps? It'll add more of an element of surprise."

"I like it. Both of you get your men and take a break at the main compound while I work this out. But you, Kuryakin, you'll have the assault team and Solo will coördinate the defending forces." Cutter disappeared out the door as quickly as he'd appeared.

Illya flashed his partner an unhappy look. "You had to suggest that? These men are exhausted, it is no wonder their times are getting slower. I do not thing mucking about in the jungle will make them perform any faster."

They walked out of the building together. "And how many times have we been running on empty while in the field?" Napoleon asked.

"True, and speaking of running on empty. We need to get to the commissary, I am hungry," the Russian patted his stomach.

"What else is new," Napoleon snickered.

 


	22. Solo Searching

"Napoleon," Sheila whispered his name, not touching him as he lay beside her, contouring his body to her's. Being a member of the Intelligence Section at UNCLE; she knew better than to reach out and touch a sleeping Section II agent.

She and Napoleon had been a bit of an item lately and she felt rather pleased with herself for garnering the attention of the famed agent. She knew he played the field when it came to women and considered herself lucky to be with him as they each other's company very much. He was a wonderful lover, and she was happy he hadn't lost interest in her and moved on, though she expected every time she saw him to be their last meeting.

The fact that he was a real ladies man didn't matter, and since she'd had the pleasure of his company a number of times, his 'love 'em and leave 'em,' attitude seemed not to apply to her for the moment.

The first time she went to bed with Napoleon, she knew exactly why women practically threw themselves at the man. Besides being...um, well endowed, it was the way he treated her that made being with him so wonderful. He had a way of making a woman feel special, as though she were perfect, and only woman in the world.

It wasn't the dinner, dancing, theatre...or lovemaking, it was the whole package. Napoleon was a manly man, yet the most gentle of gentlemen.

.

"Yes Sheila," he answered softly.

"Are you eventually going to get tired of me?" It was a rather bold question, and one a woman had never asked of him.

"I hope not, but I think you know me well enough how I am when it comes to women."

"Why do you do that, go from woman to woman? Are you looking for the perfect one?"  
She leaned on her elbow, pulling up the bed sheet around her.

"I found the perfect woman once," he sighed, thinking about his Clara, "but I let her get away."

"Why so many women? Surely some of us can fill that void," Sheila leaned across, holding herself above him, looking straight into his hazel eyes."

She had struck a chord he didn't like. So many women...? Why did he do that? Why could no woman satisfy him long enough? Perhaps he didn't want to risk being hurt again like he had when Clara sent him away. If he didn't have a connection, then it couldn't...wouldn't happen again.

His hesitation to answer told Sheila she'd intruded into his privacy. She shouldn't have asked and knew now she'd made a mistake. "I'm sorry Napoleon...I didn't mean for old memories to be brought up."

"It's all right Sheila, you meant no harm. Let's just say I have my reasons for being the way I am and leave it at that." He looked at his wristwatch, seeing that it was late; he needed to leave to go home and change. He was due in Waverly's office at seven, and to meet with Illya beforehand.

"I'm sorry I have to go."

"Was it something I said?"

"No," his answer was short, too short.

Napoleon rose from the bed, and gathering his clothes; he dressed himself. Before leaving, he leaned down and kissed her, though it was passionless.

"Bye kiddo," he whispered, and disappeared out her door.

"Good bye Napoleon Solo," Sheila sighed; somehow she knew this would be the last time he would grace her with his presence. It was all right though, at least she got to enjoy being with him more than most others, and that would have to do.

That did give her some bragging rights, she smiled to herself...

 


	23. Private Passions

Things had been very quiet for the past week at UNCLE headquarters, nothing on the radar that required the presence of Napoleon Solo or Illya Kuryakin. There were plenty of Section II agents in the field ready to step up to the plate if needed.

This lull gave the partners the opportunity to catch up on their paperwork, which was always behind, but at last they were both staring at empty in boxes and took to reorganizing their file cabinets. That took up little time.

Napoleon sat at his desk, playing with a box of paperclips as was often his habit when bored. Illya up to this point had his nose buried in some sort of journal, also his standard fall back when there was downtime.

He put away his magazine in his desk drawer with a sigh of boredom, stood and stretched his arms above his head.

"I think I am going outside for some fresh air," Illya announced.

Napoleon looked up at him, scrunching up his face in concern. "You do remember it's near ten degrees?

"And I will be wearing my hat, gloves, coat and scarf  _Mama_."

Napoleon snickered at the smart remark.

Illya gathered his outerwear and disappeared out the office door.

Napoleon started emptying his desk, piling everything on top, and surprising himself at finding things he'd been looking for...a tie clip and cufflinks and a half-dozen pieces of paper with women's phone numbers scribbled on them.

When his task was completed, it gave him pause to realize Illya hadn't returned. Looking at his watch; Napoleon saw it was near quitting time, as there was no late night desk duty assigned to them.

He picked up the telephone receiver, calling Security.

"Yes Mr. Solo, how can I help you?" A male voice answered.

"Is Mr. Kuryakin in the building?"

There was a momentary silence. "No sir, he left headquarters over a half-hour ago. He signed out for the day."

"Thank you." Napoleon raised his eyebrows, surprised Illya had said nothing about leaving. He shrugged his shoulders, not thinking much of it as he gathered his own coat and hat. His mind shifted to his date with Yvonne that evening,

The next day near the end of the workday, Illya again disappeared without a word, and it happened the following day as well.

It was obvious he wasn't about to say what he was up to, so the next time he took off, Solo was ready for him, and followed Kuryakin at a fair distance, knowing the Russian was very adept at sensing when he was being trailed.

Illya was carrying what looked like a large shoe box with him as he headed down East 42nd St.,making a left onto Fifth Avenue, and finally a right turn onto West 40th.

He walked into Bryant Park, of all places, and for a brief second a fear hit Napoleon's gut...his partner might be meeting with someone, perhaps the KGB.

Solo told himself that just wasn't possible, not Illya. He couldn't have turned double agent as he loved UNCLE and the freedoms he enjoyed here in New York. But still, he wondered why the Russian was being so secretive?

Napoleon continued to follow his partner as his direction took them down to the ice-skating rink and there Illya sat down on one of the benches, looking out at the people swirling and gliding on the ice. He reached for the box he'd carried and opened it, and much to Napoleon's relief, he saw his partner take out a pair of ice skates. Illya put on the black boots, lacing them up tightly, and stepped out tentatively onto the ice.

He skated gracefully, simply waltzing along until he picked up speed and did a leap into the air, turning and landing without a hitch.

Solo watched at a distance for a few more minutes, seeing a look of serenity on his partner's face. He left, tucking his hands in his pockets, and tuning up his trench coat collar; just feeling a little guilty that he'd doubted Illya for even a second. Yet Napoleon was glad he'd followed him, just to see his usually somber partner innocently enjoying himself was a rare treat.

Napoleon would say nothing, deciding to let it be his partner's private little passion.

 


	24. Earthquake Park

Napoleon Solo, grabbed the sides of the ladder at the lower level of the fire escape he'd just scurried down.

He locked his feet to the sides of it and holding on, he slid down to the alley below and hit the ground running. Taking a quick look behind, he spotted a pair of guards coming out a window on the top floor..

They took aim with their rifles, getting off a couple of shots as the UNCLE agent threw himself against one of the brick walls, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder.

He reached up with his hand, finding blood on his fingertips, but sighed; relieved it was just a graze. The omnipresent Solo luck was still there.

Napoleon raised his weapon, getting off a few rounds, and doing so, drove the guards back in a hasty retreat into the safety of the building.

"Come on Illya, where the hell are you?" He growled to himself as he headed out to the silver convertible parked a few hundred feet away from the alleyway.

He turned again, this time seeing the Russian in the twenty yards behind him, but his hands were raised, clasped on top of his head as an armed guard stood behind him, jabbing a rifle barrel against his back.

"Give it up Solo, or little shorty here dies."

Napoleon knew instantly that was a mistake on the guards part and he watched bemusedly as Illya spun into action, grabbing the rifle and using the butt to knock his captor out in one seamless movement.

"I am not little," Kuryakin hissed.

"You tell him tovarisch." Napoleon grinned. If there were a few things that pissed the Russian off, it was comments about his height. He knew he wasn't a tall man, but despised being called _'little.'_  It seemed to be something from his past that made that a buzzword for him.

"Now let's blow this joint before more of these goons show up." Napoleon called out.

"Do you mean that literally or figuratively?" Kuryakin asked, trotting up to him.

"Both of course,"Solo replied. "May I have the honor this time?"

"Be my guest."

Illya handed a small control unit from his jacket pocket to Napoleon, who pressed a single red button on it. There was a silence that seemed interminable, and Solo looked to his partner thinking something had gone wrong.

"Wait for it," Illya replied, seeing Napoleon's concern.

Finally there was a low rumble that turned into a deafening explosion, tearing the building apart, sending bricks and debris soaring in every direction.

"Was it good for you?" Illya smiled.

"Definitely," Napoleon grinned at him. "How about you?"

"I enjoyed it immensely, but I think now it is time we left before reinforcements arrive."

As they reached the car, Illya automatically slipped into the driver's seat.

"I have to say tovarisch, I did get a kick out of doing that. It's no wonder you like blowing up things so much."

Illya agreed with a silent nod.

"When I was a kid," Napoleon mused," I used to build this imaginary resort in my family's garden with the help of my cousin, Emile who'd visit for the summer from Quebec. We'd have toy cars in their private parking spots among little trees we made from my mother's mums, and wooden sailboats out on a lake we'd dug and filled with water, like it was a real camping area. We fashioned a volcano too, right in the middle of it all, and called the place 'Earthquake Park' At the end of the summer the volcano would erupt and destroy everything," he chuckled, recounting the story.

Illya listened with amusement, wondering where this story was going. Considering they had just destroyed a satrap with a huge explosion, they seemed to have no real connection, though he was sure eventually they would.

"We'd fill the volcano with cherry syrup and baking soda, add vinegar to start things off and stick a few firecrackers in it for the explosive eruption. It was great when it blew up...we even had lava flows; though my mother didn't appreciate the mess we made of her garden."

Illya looked at his partner suspiciously. "And this how you amused yourself as a child?"

"Yep, it was pretty amazing, I guess getting to set off the explosion today reminded me of it...strange, I hadn't thought about it since I was a kid," Napoleon said as he settled in for the trip back to headquarters.

"When I was young, I was building bombs for the partisans, and designed my own triggering device," Illya sounded almost wistful.

Napoleon forgot his partner hadn't had much of a childhood, and apologized to him, feeling a bit inconsiderate.

"Why are you apologizing. My past is my past and cannot be changed. Why should you not speak of yours if you feel so inclined. I am pleased at least one of us has good memories...now tell me more of this volcano and how you fashioned it?"

Napoleon smiled at his partner's interest, "Well you see first we the dug trenches..."

 


	25. Snug as a Bug

The blond Russian was curled up in his bed in his little apartment; he was tired, having just gotten home from stopping in headquarters give his verbal report to Alexander Waverly on the success of his latest assignment. That was protecting the son of the Ambassador from Turkey. The boy would be attending New York University in an exchange student program and needed to be safely settled in.

His father's security people could be a little rough, and needed to get used to dealing with Americans. Not everyone saying hello to Gülabar Küçük needed to be strong-armed, and if his body guards continued to treat the other students that way, it would make for an unpleasant stay at college.

Illya was not only impressed with the intellectual level of the young man, but his manners as well. It was a refreshing change from such past assignments where the offspring of diplomatic personnel were terrors, who drove him crazy, with some of the girls making attempts to get him to take them out or to have sex with them. Most annoying indeed.

The temperature in the city had dropped well below zero, and the radiator in his bedroom seemed to be going on the fritz, no matter how many times he banged on it, using a less than usual technical approach, nothing worked; it was giving off inadequate heat. The radiator in the living room was being just as uncooperative, and there he could feel a chilling draft coming from around the window. That he sealed off with a bit of masking tape.

He cursed under his breath, not only at the lack of heat, but also at the fact that he's realized he'd become soft from living in the West.

At home in his apartment in Moskva, though shared with six other adults, they often did without heat in far colder Russian winters, and a wood burning stove did little to warm those who slept in the kitchen, much less the rest of them who slept in the other room. Illya had his own cot and blanket, yet there were times he envied the two others who shared the room with him, with a big bed to themselves.

On a cold night having someone next to your body for warmth was a good thing, even if they stank...well maybe not. Illya avoided his flat-mate Oleg like the plague as the man simply had poor hygiene habits. It was bad enough he had to share the same room with him.

He was amazed that Ludmil was able to stay in the same bed at night with Oleg, but then again, Ludmil's nose was always stuffy..

Illya would manage sleeping through the night with his woolen blanket,, keeping his clothes on, as well as his coat and boots

When he and the others woke in the morning, the water in the bucket in the kitchen had a layer of ice that had to be broken, before it could be ladled into a pot to boil for tea, after that was ready, the kashi would be made in the same pot.

Brown bread would be toasted on the top of the cast iron stove and served with whatever was available...cheese, jam, butter, if one or any were left. Those sort of things didn't last very long with seven hungry people.

.

Illya concluded his musings, thinking perhaps this apartment in New York wasn't so bad after all, it was at least better than the one in Moskva.

Though the sun wasn't up yet, Illya got out of his bed; he was dressed in a pair of red-white and black plaid fleece pajama bottoms, a present from Napoleon, and a black sweatshirt . Somewhere on the floor beside the bed sat his slippers, another present from his partner, and he felt around in the cold until he found them and shoved his feet into them.

He grabbed his new black robe, another part of his birthday gift from his partner and trudged into the kitchen, putting on the kettle for tea, and turning up the other three gas burners on the stove to high to at least give him some extra heat.

Illya leaned against the counter, enjoying his steaming tea it as he warmed himself.

He was getting soft, yet a zero degree temperature here in New York was a far sight better than dealing with -31˚celsius back in Russian. Chuckling to himself, he thought it was practically a tropical heat wave by comparison.

He finished his tea, turned off the stove and headed back to bed as he suddenly realized it was Sunday and he was off duty. Leaving on his robe, Illya buried himself under his heavy quilts, snug as a bug.

He sniffed, smiling to himself as he knew Napoleon would be coming by later with the Sunday paper as well as bagels and pastries for breakfast.

Yes, this sort of softness he could endure...

 


	26. Sands of the Kalahari

 

 

 

The sun was merciless, searing down on the two UNCLE agents who'd been left to die in the in the sands of the Kalahari desert.

They walked slowly together, holding onto each other for support; their sweat-stained shirts dry now. They had no more to give.

Their skin was red, and their mouths parched with salt around their lips.

The Russian fell first, collapsing into the sand.

"Come on Illya, don't give up on me now," Solo insisted, pulling his partner by the arm.

"Noooo, leave me. I will only drag you down." Illya could barely speak, his throat was too dry and he felt as though his skin were on fire.

"Not going to happen," Napoleon gasped, we go on together or not at all."

Kuryakin was not ready to be the cause of his partner's death. "All right, I will try." He took hold of Solo's proffered hand, struggling to his feet.

Solo raised his hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the sun. "You know I think I see something in the distance. That way," he pointed.

Illya squinted, not able to see anything. "What ever you say my, cough... friend. Yes we go together." He refrained from stating the obvious as what his partner saw was most likely a mirage.

They dragged their feet through the hot sand, heading toward whatever it was Napoleon saw, or thought he saw. Hopefully it was real and not a trick of the eyes and wishful thinking.

Napoleon had no idea how far they 'd walked, but finally he saw it wasn't his imagination...it was an oasis, a small one but it was the real deal.

Illya was barely hanging on at this point. "I'm going to set you down chum. I'll be right back with some water, okay?"

The Russian nodded his approval, as his voice was gone now.

Solo lowered him to the sand, just at the edge of the oasis. Though they were so close, the Russian had no strength to take those last few steps. He was a man unaccustomed to such extreme heat, and suffered more so than the American.

Napoleon staggered to the green, searching for the source of the water, and found it trickling from a rock formation into a small pool. He knelt, scooping up a handful of the priceless liquid in his cupped hands, giving it a sniff before he slurped it into his mouth.

He searched around, grabbing a large green leaf from a nearby bush and rolled it into a funnel, pinching the end closed; he filled it with water and took a hearty drink from it and dunked it beneath the water filling it again to take to his partner.

"Sit up tovarisch, come on." Solo whispered,.

There was no response, and he poured a bit of the water onto Illya's face, making him sputter to awareness."

He slowly leaned up on his elbows, with Napoleon helping to support his head while he drank.

"Think you can walk?"

Again, nothing was said, and Illya simply nodded.

Together they supported each other as they slowly moved to the pool of water.

Once they were finally refreshed they took turns laying in the pool, losing themselves in its coolness, after which, they hid under the shade of the palm trees growing there and falling asleep from sheer exhaustion.

When Napoleon woke he found his partner gone.

"Illya?" He called out.

"Here," the blond replied from behind the rocks. He returned with a handful of dates. "I found us some food."

His skin was raw, fiery red with sunburn and his lips were swollen, but he managed a smile.

"You look terrible," Napoleon.

"Have you looked at your reflection in the pool?" Illya handed him some of the dates.

"That bad?"

Illya rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

Their attention was drawn to the sky as they heard the sound of helicopter blades whipping the dry air. As it came closer, and Napoleon and Illya stood, waving their arms above their heads to call the occupants attention to them, hoping it wasn't the men who's sent them into the Kalahari to die.

It landed beside the oasis, stirring the sand into a whirlwind and woman stepped from the chopper, running to the UNCLE agent's arms, hugging them to her.

"Thank God, you two...I thought you were lost," April Dancer beamed at them. "Come on boys, let's get you home, and some medical attention."

"How...?" Napoleon asked.

"I have my ways," she winked at him, giving him a peck on the cheek, and turning to Illya, she did the same to him.

Together, the two men flanked the auburn haired agent on either side as they limped to the chopper and their return to safety.

 


	27. One is the Loneliest Number

Napoleon sat rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He'd been working on his backlog of reports, trying to get them somewhat close to caught up. He realized he depended on Illya's help too much, and was sorely aware of that with his partner's absence.

The Russian had been sent to the South Shetland Islands, and from there he would be heading to inspect the UNCLE prison facility known as Tartarus, located somewhere at the South Pole. He didn't envy his partner the task, but given his Slavic blood and penchant for colder climates, he figured Illya was enjoying that aspect of his assignment.

Tartarus was the place where spies gone bad, and the worst of the worst were sent. Some were insane, or committed crimes that did not sit well with the UNCLE organization, others had crossed over to the dark side of evil and were beyond help.

Checking up on them was not an enviable task, but someone had to do it, and Illya volunteered...

At this moment Napoleon wished he'd learned to touch-type like his partner. Writing out these reports would take half the time, and at least would be readable. He was willing to admit his handwriting was terrible at times, chicken scratch as Illya called it, and he was one of the few who could decipher it. Napoleon laughed to himself, as sometimes, he couldn't even read his own handwriting while Illya could, bless his patient heart.

He decided to call it a day and would continue his task tomorrow, unless he was given an assignment, but he wouldn't hold his breath on that one. He snapped his fingers, coming up with another thought and reached into his desk drawer, pulling out his little black book, deciding a little romantic company was in order tonight...

Reaching for the telephone receiver, he dialed for an outside line and then the number of the lucky young lady.

"Hi Adreinee, it's Napoleon. Yes I'm fine, I was wondering if you'd like to go to the Twenty One Club with me tonight? Oh, all right, maybe we can get together soon. Yes, I'll call you...bye."

He dialed another number, striking out again. and again and again. Finally he gave up, and picking up his communicator, he spoke into it.

"Open Channel D-overseas relay, Kuryakin."

The connection was made, but was full of static, as the signal to the Antarctic was dicey.

"Kuryakin here."

"Hi Illya, whatcha up to?"

"Hello Napoleon, do not tell me, you cannot get a date and you are bored."

Solo could practically see his partner grinning."

"Am I that predictable?"

"Only when it comes to women. Napoleon I am sorry but I cannot talk at the moment as I am in the middle of inspecting the prisoner section facility"

"Oh, okay, sorry to bug you tovarisch."

"Not the case, I will always have an ear for you my friend. Call me back in about an hour?"

"Thanks chum, I'll do that. Out."

.

note: Thanks to Gina Martin for coining the concept of 'Tartarus' that has become part of fanon.

 


	28. Putting Survival to the Test

The trek up Mount Washington was one part of this year's annual test of Section II agents abilities, it included cold weather survival, orienteering, swimming in icy waters, mountain climbing, downhill and cross-country skiing.

Solo and Kuryakin were the first pair of agents, well into their hike up the mountain when above them, a slab of snow broke free, catching them in an avalanche that carried them down at least 800 feet.

The remaining agents scrambled to their snowmobiles, desperate to find their missing comrades before it was too late, as they'd have only so much oxygen to breath while buried beneath the snow.

Unable to do a thing, Illya felt the snowpack enveloping him, and there was nothing to do but go with the flow, knowing it was critical to get a hand in front his face to create an airspace before the snow stopped. Hopefully he would be near the surface and could try to thrust an arm, or leg out to be seen by rescuers. If that were the case, then he might be able to break free by himself.

As the snow finally ceased its movement, there was no such luck, as he could barely move, and he knew not to struggle except to enlarge the air space around him as best he could.

He wasn't able to dig himself free, for if that were the case, few people would die in avalanches...

Avalanche debris entombes you in place, and is like being frozen in concrete. If it had been a small avalanche with soft debris, and he had a hand near the surface, Illya would have been able to dig himself out in spite of the odds, but this was no small avalanche and at this point there were only two ways to get out of the snow, and that was to be dug out or to melt out in the spring.

Survival time was short, and if they weren't looking in the right place for him and Napoleon... Illya stopped his thought, as he'd momentarily forgotten about his partner and wondered if he were dead or alive. It was then he heard voices above him, and he started to yell as best he could. Somehow he was heard, and he could hear their digging as well.

Sunlight broke through to reveal his reddened face, and he gasped for air as his fellow agents pulled him up from the snow and helped him brush the snow from his light blue, fur-trimmed parka.

"Napoleon, where is he? Have you found him?" Were the first words Kuryakin uttered.

"Not yet, we're still looking."

They heard a voice call to them several hundred yards down the slope. It was Solo, he'd been buried up to his neck after grabbing hold of a tree trunk to prevent him being dragged under the snow and had just come to.

"Hey guys, a little help here would be good. I'm starting to go numb!"

Illya led the pack, sinking knee-deep in the powder, dashing down to his partner, and immediately started digging him out. They lifted Napoleon to his feet, with back-slapping and hand-shaking all around, happy they'd survived.

Reinhard Shultz, the agent in charge of the testing made a welcome announcement.

"Let's give this one a pass for everyone, and call it a day."

"Not fair,"Solo chided facetiously, "everyone should get their chance on the mountain."

"Napoleon, not everyone has the Solo luck," Illya reminded him.

"And what's your excuse chum?"

"That would be luck by _association,_  I think," he smiled back at the American.

 


	29. Chicken Soup

There was loud sneeze that echoed from the bathroom, startling Napoleon as he dozed on his bed.

The hotel room they were booked into, thankfully was a double, giving him and Illya separate beds for once. After hearing the sneeze, he was thankful not to be sleeping in close quarters with his partner.

The bathroom door opened slowly, with a red-nosed Russian appearing, dressed in his pale blue pajamas. He cleared his throat, sniffling into the handkerchief he held to his nose.

"Dapoleon, dis is not good." He mumbled, as he threw back the covers and crawled into bed with a moan. He coughed violently as he pulled his blanket up around his neck.

"You're right as you're not going to be any good to me in your condition." Napoleon declared, getting up and walking to his partner's bedside. He reached over, putting his hand on Illya's forehead.

"Oh man, you've got a fever." He opened up his travel kit, pulling out a bottle of aspirin, and pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser, he held them out.

"Doh, I will be fine," Illya rasped. "I just deed to sleep."

"And I say yes, now take the tablets and don't give me any guff, and that's an order."

"Sure pull rank on be." Illya grudgingly accepted the medication.

"No palming them, if you please?" Napoleon warned.

"You are doh fun, did I ever tell you?" Illya popped the pills into his mouth, swallowing them with a sip of water and setting the glass on the night table. He coughed again, and pulled the blanket over his head with another moan.

Napoleon's head began to spin, suddenly realizing he now had a headache. He popped a couple aspirins just in case, dry swallowing them "Damn,' he uttered, knowing he needed Illya with him to pull off his plan. There was simply no time to get another agent in to cover.

He called room service ordering two big bowls of chicken soup, and a pot of hot tea with honey and lemon.

When the order arrived, Illya was still awake, coughing like he was going to hack up a lung. He wasn't hungry, but like the aspirin, he obliged his partner's entreaties to eat the soup, knowing it would in truth do him some good.

He wished he could taste it, but at least the hot soup was soothing and the tea made his throat feel a bit better as well.

"Did you dow the healing properties of chicken soup are dot just a wives tale?" He said finishing it off. "I did an analysis of it once, and found, when made properly, it has trace amounts of penicillin."

"I thought your were allergic to penicillin?"

"Apparently the amounts in the soup are not enough to trigger a reaction."

"It must be doing something as you sound less stuffy chum. Lucky you...and me too. Last thing I want is to have to rush you to a hospital with an allergic reaction...Illya?" The Russian had fallen asleep, with the empty bowl still in his hands.

Napoleon clicked his tongue, removing it and tucking his friend in, crossing his fingers his partner would be feeling well enough in the morning...

The next day Illya woke minus the fever, though he was still coughing and sneezing.

A good hot shower seemed break things up a bit in his chest, and being grateful for his partner's insistence, he gave no argument when he was asked to take more aspirin.

"We'll stop at a chemist and get you some cough syrup tovarisch, that's if you feel up to this?"

"I am up to it, no cold is going to stop me." Illya nodded with confidence.

"Reassuring to know, sick or not, you'll still have my back," Napoleon said, pouring his partner one last cup of tea...

 


	30. Lonely At the Top

It was one o'clock in the morning when Alexander Waverly decided to call it a day, though leaving headquarters at this time of the morning was early for him.

He was lucky that his darling wife Estelle managed to keep nearly the same hours as he after all these years, run a well-organized household and raise their two children without so much as one word of complaint.

Their fourth grandchild was due to arrive soon, and that had her mind quite occupied at the moment. She'd be leaving for Boston to tend to their daughter Florence until she was settled in with the baby.

The parents knew what gender the baby was to be, but the grandparents were old-fashioned and wanted to be surprised. Their son Edmund had already presented them with three grandsons, and Alexander suspected that Estelle was hoping for a little girl, so she could do all those frilly female things with the child as she had with Florence, bless her heart.

He walked to the narrow windows of his office, looking out at the New York skyline now being blanketed in a light snowfall.

He wished he could go to Boston, to be there for the birth of the child, but it was simply impossible. His was a position that required constant attention. Alexander suddenly chuckled that his agents thought he never slept, and was here twenty-four-seven. Though it wasn't true, sometimes he too felt like it was.

"Dash it all," he said, deciding he'd take that trip to Boston with his wife after all...a child was only born once and he missed the births of the other three.

A light on his console flashed as soon as the said that, and he flicked a toggle switch, picking up the hand held microphone.

"Yes, go ahead."

"Sir Section IV here, we've just received word that Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin have been cut off in the Belgian Congo. They were unable to get out before the coup."

"What is their current status?"

"They're going to try to make it through to the province of Katanga and over the border to Northern Rhodesia."

"We can't get a helicopter in to retrieve them?"

"No sir the situation is too volatile, the revolution has triggered all sorts of ethnic rivalries that escalating. The killing is out of control by both government troops, rebels as well as a number of different indigenous tribes.

"Get me a line to the Belgian Ambassador...no strike that, connect me to the U.N. security council."

"Mr. Waverly sir, it's one-fifteen in the morning, the council isn't in session. I already checked sir."

"Hmmm yes, good forethought. Very well then, get me a line to the Belgian Ambassador, and I don't care if you have to wake him, but first connect me to my home. I need to speak to Mrs. Waverly."

"Yes sir, right away."

There was a series of clicks, a dial-tone and then ringing."

"Yes Alexander?"

"Estelle I'm sorry but..."

"I know, and understand, the world needs saving. Do what you have to do. My trip to Boston will be delayed somewhat by the snow, so I'll be here waiting for you. At least our Florence hasn't gone into early labor."

"Estelle my darling..."

"Yes Alexander?"

"When was the last time I told you how much I loved you dear girl?"

"Why not that so long ago Alex, but you can tell me again..."

 


	31. Absence of fear

Napoleon Solo was a man who craved action and was not one to sit idly by and watch innocents suffer if he could help it; that belief held true for his partner as well.

Though whether it was by chance or destiny, his partner the enigmatic Russian, seemed to be the recipient of torture at the hands of their many foes more than one would think.

At the moment Napoleon was looking through a pair of binoculars, watching as his partner was hanging upside down with his hair looking like a blond mop. His back bore the bloody red marks of a whipping, and though Illya's hands were dangling free, they were motionless as he was most likely unconscious.

Fear gripped the American's gut and for a moment he froze with indecision; he had to come up with a plan to free his friend before it was too late, otherwise he would have to kill him. That was Waverly's cold-hearted order, one that he rarely issued, but in this case Illya Kuryakin carried intelligence vital to U.N.C.L.E. in his head, specifically the new security codes he had helped develop and if he were to crack, it would mean a disaster for the organization worldwide.

Security codes weren't something developed overnight, they took months of planning and refining. If the codes were compromised, it would virtually shut down all data sharing and communications. The organization would be cut off from itself for months... landlines could be used, but minimally. U.N.C.L.E. would be at a virtual stand-still.

Napoleon took a deep breath, choosing the former instead of the latter, life over death for his helpless partner; though he in fact had no plan of action formulated yet, he knew he could come up with one but it had to be fast. He reassured himself he could do this, banishing his fear as he recalled a quote from Victor Hugo...

**_'Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it.'_** Yes, he'd master it and get Illya out alive, come hell or high water.

Solo moved carefully as the sun set, hiding in the shadows as he left the relative safety of the tree line and approached the building where Illya was being held. He'd decided the direct approach was the best, and sneaking up behind the single guard beside the door; he karate-chopped the man on the neck and into silence and bound his hands with his own belt.

Surprisingly the door wasn't locked and Napoleon dragged the guard inside, quickly closing the door after them.

Illya was still tied up by his feet, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room like a side of beef. He was beginning to come to as he was cut free, and lowered gently to the floor His face was red and swollen from being inverted for so long, and as his eyes opened, they were slow to focus on his partner's face.

_"Napoleon_..." was the only word he could barely whisper.

"Come on buddy, we need to move fast and get you out of here." Fear returned, nibbling at Solo, and he again banished it. He grabbed a nearby blanket, draping it over the Russian, covering his blond head and bloodied torso as they stepped out into the night, moving as quickly as they could, considering Illya's condition, and disappeared into the woods. They finally made it to the waiting car Napoleon had hidden nearby.

_"Spacibo,"_ Illya muttered as he closed his eyes, leaning his head against the car door, trying to find a comfortable position.

Napoleon simply nodded as he drove off into the night...

 


	32. Bella Notte

Illya pulled the garlic bread from the broiler in the oven, slicing it diagonally and placing it into a small basket, finally covering it with a tea towel. He carried it and a platter of spaghetti and meatballs to his dining room table where his partner waited; Napoleon smiling rather amusedly at this domestic scene.

"So what gives? You who claim can't cook and yet you invite me over, having made dinner for me?" Napoleon tried not to make that sound so suspicious, though he was feeling it was. Illya never did anything without having a good reason.

"Napoleon there is no dark ulterior motive. I simply would like to at least once repay the many times you have prepared dinner for me. Though I do apologize as spaghetti and meatballs hardly compares to a steak dinner."

The American accepted the explanation at face value, as with Illya it was hard to figure when he was telling the truth or not. He would have done well as a professional poker player.

Illya opened a bottle of Chianti, pouring their drinks and lit a candle in an empty wine bottle set in the middle of the table. He put on a record of Italian music, turning the volume down to a soft level

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was a date," Solo chuckled.

"Napoleon, please...do either of us look like women?" Illya looked strangely at him. "Are there not enough rumors circulating about us as it is?

"Maybe about you, but my reputation is quite intact, thank you. I can't help think it...well the music, wine, candles sort of make me think of that scene from Lady and the Tramp where they're enjoying their spaghetti dinner together. 'Lady' did have long..."

Illya's eyes widened as his eyebrows raised, no poker face here. "Excuse me? You are not exactly what I would say is befitting the name 'Tramp,' nor I of 'Lady, and...and I hardly plan to share a strand of spaghetti between us."

"Trust me, that's not where my mind was going tovarisch. My preference is for the ladies as you know well."

"That is true, as are mine. I apologize for intimating otherwise, as that was not my intention."

"But then again, you're the one with the luxurious, long blond hair...I'm just saying." This time Napoleon grinned, egging his partner on as he popped a meatball into his mouth. As he tasted it, he realized it was quite delicious.

Illya huffed, crossing his arms in front of himself. "This is the last time I invite you to dinner."

 


	33. Escape from Almeria

This story was inspired by the you-tube video of "Rumble thy Bellyful," played by the 'String Sisters." It was composed by Liz Carroll. (the woman with the short hair in the video) This fic was cross-posted on section7mfu live journal and dreamwidth along with the video.

This recording said to me...'horses, Moorish Spain and a bit of Russia too.' here's the link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bv1kugO_puc&spfreload=10

 

 

 

They galloped along shifting sands on their two horses; a blond man riding a black horse and a dark-haired fellow on a white stallion. He rode more elegantly as if he were a trained rider, while the blond sat astride his horse more loosely, as if he were one with the animal, his longer hair and the mane of the horse blowing in the hot wind

They were in the Tabernas Desert, in the province of Almería in southern Andalucia, the location of Europe's only desert.

Tradition said the name Almería stemmed from the Arabic _المرية Al-Mariyya_  meaning the _"The Mirror",_  in comparison to the"The Mirror of the Sea" as it was also on the coastline of the Mediterranean.

It's most accepted interpretation was derived from the Arabic _مرأى Al-Mara'ā,_  meaning the" _The Watchtower"_. Given that it was the location of the Moorish castle, the Alcazaba, the second largest among the Muslim fortresses of Andalusia, after the Alhambra, that name seemed fitting.

Solo and Kuryakin were fleeing the town of Tabernas, having just retrieved a stolen notebook containing yet another formula to convert seawater into gold that had fallen into the hands of one Venganza de Sangre, an evil man if ever there was one. They'd locked horns with him before, but being the slimy bugger that he was; he'd gotten away from them yet again, though his men were after them...

"Yah!" Illya spurred his horse onwards, only looking back to see if their pursuers were still there. He saw above him, circling in the sky, a different kind of predator, a rather large Bonelli Eagle, native to the desert. It was gliding on the heat of the midday air, preparing to dive after one of the lesser birds of prey, a kestrel from the look of it.

The landscape was surprisingly well endowed with vegetation for a desert, and full of wildlife such as natterjack toads, terrapins, ladder snakes and lizards. There were only twenty mammalian species known to live there though...

But the only wildlife Solo and Kuryakin were concerned with were the men coming after them. They too were on horseback, and had just appeared over a sand dune and that's when they began to open fire on the American and the Russian.

Illya dropped to the side of his horse, doing one of his Cossack riding tricks in a single swift move, dodging the first volley of gunfire. He yelled across to his partner.

"Napoleon, lock your foot into the stirrup, and dismount, keep a firm grip on the saddle horn... and hold on tightly!"

"You're kidding, I can't do any of that trick stuff!" He called back.

"Do it or risk getting shot!" The Russian ducked from another bullet, swinging himself down and turning around, he held onto the saddle while returning fire with his Special held in his other hand.

Solo was hesitant, but as a bullet whizzed past his head, barely missing him, he quickly changed his mind.

"Oh boy, here goes nothing," he said to himself as he leaned forward, lifting his leg over the saddle as Illya had done, and held on for dear life as the horse galloped. Napoleon smiled when he realized it had worked, but unlike his partner, he wouldn't try to turn around, as he'd surely lose his grip and fall.

Illya managed to bring down two of the six men chasing them, and as the horses charged over yet another dune, more gunfire rang out, but this time from in front of them. Solo pulled his weapon, but it wasn't necessary...

There standing at the top of the next dune were none other than April Dancer and Mark Slate, firing with their UNCLE carbines. They brought down two more of the Thrushmen, leaving the remaining pair to turn tail and run.

"Nice timing!"Napoleon called as he remounted his feisty horse and reined it to a halt.

"Pretty fancy riding mates," Mark said as he and his partner approached their fellow agents.

"Yes it was, wasn't it?" Napoleon grinned, "Courtesy of Illya here." He looked to the Russian sitting back in the saddle again as his shining black horse pranced in place. " Say, partner mine, when this is all over how about some more trick riding lessons...ones that don't have to be taught under duress?"

"Me too," April chimed in.

"And you Mark, do you not want to join the happy riding club?" Illya asked, patting his horse on the neck. He opened the top few buttons of his white shirt revealing his pale skin, damp with perspiration; he was finding the desert heat stifling.

The Brit snickered, "No thanks guv, I had my fill of horses when Rosy Shlagenheimer's beast threw off me in that bar in Germany." *

.

* ref "The Galatea Affair. episode 62 MFU


	34. The Ides of March

Napoleon shivered at what felt like chill wind blew as he and Illya walked down the block, heading towards the entrance to Del Floria's.

"I can't wait for Spring, I'm freezing," he muttered, pulling his lined trench coat tightly about him.

"How can you say that, it is nearly sixty degrees, and quite mild for the middle of March, would you not say?" His partner challenged him.

"Really? It's near sixty? I keep getting the shivers...hope I'm not coming down with something?"

Illya reached over with his hand. "May I?"

"Sure, but I don't feel feverish.'

The Russian placed his hand to Solo's forehead. "No your temperature feels fine."

"You know these shivers and goosebumps actually are making me wonder if I'm having some sort of premonition," Napoleon asked. "You know, as if someone stepped on my grave."

Illya snickered, "Did you know that old saying,' _someone stepped on your grave'_  after shivering, came from an outbreak of small pox in 1804. Shivering, being one of the symptoms meant you might be contracting small pox soon, and then stepping into your grave. Many poems were written back then about this topic."

"Oh joy, now you're telling me I'm coming down with smallpox?" Napoleon half-laughed as he sniffled. "Studying American colloquialisms are you?"

"Well you do always complain when I get them wrong," Illya shrugged as they continued walking. " Then again, tomorrow it will be the Ides of March and you know the..."

"Yes, I know...'beware the Ides of March."

"Did you not just see the movie ' _Julius Caesar'_  on one of your dates? You happened to remark that the actor who played Cassius bore a striking resemblance to you, did you not?"

"No that was Casca...so what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?"

Illya looked perplexed," Why are you asking about Chinese tea?"

Napoleon flashed him one of his very expressive looks as he shook his head.

The Russian paused understanding his partner's stare all too well and thinking for a moment; he made a mental note. "Ah, another of your colloquialisms again...I will investigate this one as well."

Napoleon left it at that, as he just didn't feeling like giving an explanation...it was too early in the morning for 'explanations,' and no doubt, his inquisitive partner would figure it out, eventually. Solo's mind turned back to the Ides of March remark.

"Tovarisch,why are you bringing up March 15th?"

"Well we are leaving for Rome in a few hours...just saying," Illya remarked. "We will be crossing the international date line and it will be the 15th when we arrive there..."

Solo finally put the pieces of this puzzling conversation together; the chills, his grave being stepped on, him looking like Caaca and the Ides of March...

"Then I'll make sure to avoid the  _Theatre of Pompey_ ," Napoleon said, just before he sneezed.*

" _Gesundheit,_ " Illya quickly responded in German," Oh excuse me, perhaps a bit of Latin would be more appropriate... _Carpe diem._ "

" _Seize the day_?" Napoleon asked, becoming more confused at his partner's increasingly cryptic remarks.

"Yes, the idiomatic translation suits your chilling situation.  _Enjoy the present day, trusting little to what tomorrow may bring."_

"Gee, thanks." Napoleon sneered at the Russian as he turned the handle to door at Del Floria's, and hearing the reassuring tinkle of the brass bell...

.

* the place where Julius Caesar was assassinated

 


	35. Waiting for Spring

The Thrush agent stared out the narrow slit in the window, watching the snow as it drifted to the ground. He sighed.

"I have to admit, I'm getting tired of this snow. It's less than five days to Spring. I want to see green again. I've been stationed here in Iceland too long."

Napoleon Solo sat patiently listening to the man, until he found a point in the complaining to interject a few words that might get him out of his predicament.

"You know if you were to let me go, I could see to it, after your debrief, that UNCLE put you in a safe house in a nice tropical location of your choice. How does that sound?" His widened in anticipation of a positive reaction.

"Nice try Solo, but I have on reliable sources that THRUSH is sending me to my next assignment in a nice warm place."

"And would that be hell?" Napoleon jabbed.

"You've got a real smart mouth for someone who's going to die very soon."

"You can't blame me for trying," he cocked an eyebrow in response.

"Shut up Solo, leave me have a little peace while I wait for my relief, then I'm out the door and off to..."

" And that would be...?"

"Almost got me to tell you, but not quite." The agent laughed. "Not that it really matters, since you're a deadman anyway...so I'll satisfy your curiosity Solo. I'm headed to Tahiti, the location of our newest satrap. An ultra modern facility and completely up to date with the latest technology. And I get to use it and bask in the tropical sun too."

Napoleon smiled, satisfied he'd gotten the information with little to no effort for once.

There was a knock on the door.

"That'll be my relief," the Thrushie grinned. He unlocked it and a man in a blue, fur-trimmed parka stepped inside.

"About time you showed up! I am  _so_ out of here."

"Not quite yet," the man said, dropping his hood and revealing his face.

Of course it was Kuryakin, Napoleon knew his partner had been lurking about outside waiting to get the drop on the relief agent.

Illya raised his gun, "I think you need to release Mr. Solo and cuff yourself to the chair.

"Aw crap," the agent blurted out. "Come on you two, give me a break, please?"

"Two minutes ago you were talking about killing me off and now you want us to cut you a break?" Napoleon chided him. "Tsk tsk, wanting to be able to have your cake and eat it too...not going to happen."

"You will be coming back to UNCLE with us to have a nice little chat," Illya added.

"I won't talk."

"You already did, since you bragged about the new satrap in Tahiti," Napoleon reminded him. "Now if you tell us more, we'll set you up in that nice tropical safe house I talked about, where a certain flock of birds can't find you."

"Napoleon, we will not be going anywhere for a while,"Illya said, peeking out the window. "I think the snow storm is now becoming a blizzard."

"That's no problem, our friend here can start singing like a Thrush here instead of waiting to get to headquarters."

"Fine...say is there anything to eat here? I am starving," the Russian said as he removed his parka, and threw some extra logs on the fire..."And what is your name?" He asked the Thrushman.

"It's Eddie. Um, yeah there's some cans of chicken soup in the larder, a loaf of rúgbrauð rye bread, some dried fruit, cheese and tins of sardines and oh yes, harðfiskur -dried fish too."

"Any coffee or tea?"

"Both and I think some Ovalmatine too."

"A veritable feast," Napoleon grinned. He prepared the food for them, setting it very nicely on the table for them with paper napkins and even a small candle in the stuck in a bottle, in the center, for atmosphere.

"Dinner is served," he said to Illya, who sat down and started digging in with relish.

"Hey, what about me?" Eddie whined.

"Ah, you'll have to 'sing' for your supper my friend," Napoleon took a bite of the  _rúgbrauð. "_ This is quite tasty..."

 

 


	36. Chocolate delight

Napoleon watched with amusement as his partner devoured a bowl of chocolate pudding followed by a substantial slice of German chocolate cake. They were sitting in a diner just outside of Albany, and had just completed a courier drop to one of UNCLE's field offices.

A low-key assignment for the organizations finest, but it was slow at the moment and they needed to earn their paychecks.

"I know it goes without saying that you love your food, and I finally understand this high metabolism thing of yours, but I have to ask...you are really crazy about chocolate, why is that?" Solo asked his partner.

Illya wiped his mouth with his napkin, putting down his fork for a moment.

"I suppose it was because chocolate was such a rare treat when I was growing up. I do have rather fond memories of my mother making  _Blini_ \- her's were very thin yeast-leavened pancakes made from buckwheat flour. They were usually served with different dressings, sour cream, jam, syrup, red caviar, salmon, or cheese but my mother would serve hers with melted chocolate. I was very little, but remember them well and their delicious taste drizzled with the dark semi-sweet confection. Of course when the war came, there was no more chocolate, or much of any food for that matter..." Illya's voice trailed off as if he were recalling a distant memory.

There was little of his life growing up in the Soviet Union that Illya chose to share, but from the tidbits he revealed from time to time usually spoke of a harsh and unhappy life.

"So you're sort of reliving happier moments from your past through eating chocolate in any way, shape or form?" Solo gently smiled.

Illya tilted his head to the side as he picked up his fork again. "I suppose that is correct, and a very Freudian observation on your part my friend." He swallowed another mouthful of cake, closing his eyes, relishing the flavor and no doubt the recollections that accompanied it.

Napoleon waved to the waitress behind the counter. "Excuse me Miss, my friend here will have a slice of that chocolate cream pie, and I'll have one too." He smiled charmingly at her, though she looked at Illya, no doubt wondering where such a skinny guy put it all.

"Two chocolate creams coming right up Mister."

"That was not necessary," Illya whispered, I do not wish to appear the glutton."

"Forget about it chum, you just enjoy your pie along with those pleasant memories." Napoleon winked at him.

 


	37. Yippie

Napoleon turned around, hearing a noise, and watched as his partner came running around the corner of the building at top speed, taking the turn, skidding on one leg.

"Dog!" He yelled as he tore past the American and scrambled up into a large oak tree like a monkey and there he squatted on a branch well out of canine reach.

Solo drew his weapon, ready to dart the presumed guard dog, just waiting for it to come into view.

A brown dog showed itself all right, stopping and staring at him, giving a couple of yipps...it was a _dachshund._

"Illya, you have got to be kidding me? You're afraid of a Weiner dog?" He laughed.

"The operative word is  _dog,"_ the Russian called, "and I am not coming down until you dart that beast."

"I'll do no such thing...look at it. It's cute, couldn't hurt a fly. Hiya pup, nice doggy. You wouldn't bite the scaredy-cat Russian would you?" Napoleon reached out to calm the dog and to pet it.

It charged Solo and before he could do anything, it latched onto his ankle, it's sharp teeth sinking into his skin. Napoleon let out a yowl of pain, pulling the dog away from him and tossing it a few feet away. The dachshund landed on it's feet and turned, preparing to charge again as it growled.

Napoleon quickly scurried up the tree as best he could, joining his partner on the branch, and giving him the stink eye.

"What? Like it is my fault? I warned you, did I not?" Illya protested, but his frown suddenly turned into a grin "Hmmm, afraid of a  _Weiner_  dog, are you?" He parroted back.

"Ha ha."

"So, Mister I-always-have-a-plan, what do you propose we do?" Illya snickered.

"Shoot the vicious little creature," Napoleon complained, holding his ankle.

Kuryakin shook his head. "I may dislike dogs, but a little thing like that, I could never..."

"Gotcha," Solo laughed.

"Not funny," the Russian growled.

"Hey you two, what are you doing up my tree," an elderly lady called to them, holding the dog in her arms. "Were you messing with my Yippie?"

Feeling it was safe now, Illya climbed down, helping Napoleon support himself as he reached the ground.

"No Madam, to be precise, your dog was chasing us and bit my ankle," Napoleon spoke very politely to her.

She laughed out loud. "Two grown men afraid of my little puppy, for landsakes he's only six months old! Come on Yippie, let me give you a treat while the silly men go away..."

 


	38. It's a matter of faith

"Excuse me Eileen, "Napoleon spoke to the Section II secretary, "Have you seen Illya lately? I checked and he's not in the lab, and even Security hasn't a clue where he is."

"He's up on the roof," she whispered, as though it was a state secret.

"Eileen, why are you whispering?" He leaned closer, doing the same thing to her.

"I don't think Illya wants people to know he's up there for some reason."

"Oh," Napoleon straightened himself up, shooting his cuffs and tightening the knot on his silk tie." Did he seem...okay to you?" He wasn't surprised Security hadn't spotted him there, given Illya had set up the majority of the new surveillance cameras in the building; the sly Russian knew exactly where the blind spots were...

"To tell you the truth, he didn't...well it's sort of hard to tell with him, but he seemed unhappy."

"Thanks Eileen, you're a doll," Napoleon smiled to her and turned, heading to the elevator. He and his partner's last mission had been a success, no one was hurt, no innocents involved, and that set him to wondering what could have made Illya unhappy. He was prone to bouts of melancholia, but those always had a trigger.

The elevator opened to the top floor of headquarters, revealing a flight of stairs the lead to the secure door and the rooftop. Only security and key personnel had the code to unlock that door, and Solo was one of them.

He stepped out onto the gravel-covered roof top, the crunch beneath his feet no doubt signalling company to the Russian.

Napoleon found him sitting on the ledge of the building, with his legs dangling precariously over the side.

"Hello Napoleon," Illya greeted him, taking a long drag of the cigarette held between his fingers.

"How'd you know it was me? Solo stepped up beside him.

"Only Eileen knew where I was, and I presumed you would have asked her my whereabouts, since Security does not even know I am up here...I suppose that is not a good thing. I had better have more cameras installed to cover those blind spots, especially up here."

"I thought you quit smoking?"

"I did, yet again my body craved the need for one or two more smokes."

"You told me once they calmed the nerves, so what has you feeling the need for them?" Solo sat down beside him, keeping his feet firmly on the surface of the rooftop.

Illya let out a long exhalation. "It is family related, and before you blurt out that I have no family...it is something from my past, that is all."

"Would you like to talk about it? That does help sometimes, believe it or not when it comes to family, I do understand."

Illya snapped at him. "How could you possibly understand when your family is alive and well. Remember mine were all murdered."

"No I suppose I can't, but I do know how I'd feel if I'd lost my family. It would be pretty devastating."

Illya suddenly felt guilty at having lashed out at the man who only had the best of intentions.

"Napoleon, today is the anniversary of my sister Katiya's death at the hands of the Nazis."

"Oh," was all Napoleon could say. He knew more of Illya's sister than he let on, recalling an incident when Illya had been heavily drugged and hallucinated that fateful day when his sister had been burned to death in the family home, just outside of Kiev. Though under the influence of the drugs, the Russian cried like a baby in his arms that night, reliving his childhood terror after they'd escaped a burning THRUSH satrap.*

"Illya, I'm not only your partner, I'm your best friend. You already trust me with your life, why not other things? I'm not only here to cover your back."

"Indeed, why not other things," Illya thought to himself, unsure as to what made him put up this wall between not only Napoleon, but others as well. Lowering his head and his guard just a little he tossed his cigarette into a coffee can left there for butts and he recounted that night his sister died, not knowing Napoleon already knew the story.

"I left Katiya alone in the attic of our small home in search of food, and promised to return. She was very weak from not having enough to eat, and was not making any sort of sound." He paused, composing himself.

"When I did return, the house was being searched by Nazi soldiers. One of them threw a grenade inside as he left and the explosion set the dacha on fire. It went up like a tinderbox, with my helpless baby sister inside. She was nearly four when she perished."

Napoleon watched as his partner struggled to restrain his emotions.

"I could do nothing to save her," he whispered. "Had she lived, Katiya would have been thirty years old in a weeks time. She would have been a beautiful woman," he paused, "she had auburn hair just like my father and my brother Dimitry."

Napoleon refrained from any physical sort of gesture. "Come on tovarisch, I'll take you out for drinks and supper. We can toast to your sister...she is after all in heaven with the rest of your family.

"Heaven Napoleon? Do you really think so?" Illya shifted around to face him, his feet settling on the rooftop.

"It's a matter of faith chum, and right now I know you don't want to believe, so I'll have faith for the both of us."

.

* ref " Bayushki bayu_hush a bye"

 


	39. A matter of respect

  
Illya Kuryakin and his American partner approached the red brick Russian Orthodox Cathedral of St. Nicholas on East 97th Street.

Though an impressive edifice,  it was set back from the apartment buildings on either side of it, blocking it from immediate view.  It was an opulent structure but if it had not been for the five onion domes on it’s roof, inspired by the great architectural edifices of Tsarist Russia, it might have been missed.

The two agents stepped through the arched white doors, listening as their footsteps echoed on the parquet wood floor.

The interior of the cathedral was completely the opposite the dull exterior, with the walls painted a brilliant sky blue, and adorned with large murals of Russian saints. At the front of the church was the iconostasis... a wall of icons and religious paintings, separating the nave from the golden doored sanctuary. It was as ornately decorated with gilt wooden panels and arches, filled with icons of Christ, angels and other religious figures.

  
Laying before the iconostasis, on a dark red carpet was a simple wooden coffin, covered with the flag of the church and single wreath of red, white and blue carnations set at the foot of it.

It was the body of  Alexander Alexsaevich Borislav, otherwise known as Sasha, to the Russian UNCLE agent.

Looking at Illya’s drawn face, Napoleon could sense his partner’s discomfort. “You okay tovarisch?”

“I have not been in an Orthodox church since I was a child...and I am surprised that I am finding it a bit disconcerting, “Illya whispered.

“Could it just be that it’s because your friend Sasha is lying there?”

“He was not my friend, he was my contact who kept me up with the backdoor goings-on in my country.”

“Okay if he wasn’t your friend, then why are you, an atheist I remind you, attending his funeral?”

“The man did not have to be my friend for me to show him my respects, and in order to do that, it was necessary to attend his service. It is sad that no one else has chosen to show up. I suppose it was because Sasha was a member of KGB and therefore had no friends here.”

Napoleon looked confused,”But if he was KGB, what’s he doing having a religious funeral. And you having a contact with the KGB, that’s a little strange since they’re always trying to kill you, don’t you think?”

“My relationship with him served its purpose and was no stranger than your affairs with Angelique,” Illya smiled.  “I do not think Sasha had much of a choice in the matter of his funeral. There was no unexpected illness, as he died of a heart attack. His cover was as caretaker for this church and they are simply giving him the service they believe he deserves.”

“So he wasn’t a believer?”

“As far as I know...no, but one never knew with Sasha. He was a sly  Russian bear and from a different era. It is possible he still practiced his faith, but only in secret as my family did before the war.  He was old enough to be my grandfather.

The black-robed Father Kolodka arrived a few minutes later, stroking his long white beard as he and Illya conferred privately in Russian, after which the service began.

Once the funeral rites were completed, Illya and Napoleon followed the hearse to the cemetery out on Long Island. And there the priest completed the final rites and customs of the burial, with Illya being the only participant, and after singing the chants in Russian along with the priest, he said again, reminding Napoleon it was done out of respect.

As the agents walked carefully among the graves in the cemetery, heading back to their car, Napoleon asked a very interesting question of his enigmatic partner.

“Illya, who paid for this funeral? Surely not the Soviet Government?”

The Russian looked straight ahead, not answering the question as he slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car...


	40. It's not about the food

The tea kettle whistled steadily, calling the Russian's attention as he slapped some cheese between two slices of bread and tossed it into a frying pan to make a grilled cheese sandwich for himself.

A pot of Campbell's chicken noodle soup was heating in a small pot on the next burner over on the stove.

He stopped for a moment, picking up the kettle and pouring the steeping water into a mug containing Ovaltine, and as an afterthought, he pulled a bag of mini-marshmallows from one of the kitchen cabinets, adding some to his hot beverage.

Illya lifted the mug, letting the hot vapors from it waft to his nose, allowing him to sniff it before swallowing a mouthful of his malt-chocolate treat.

He lifted the sandwich when it was ready with a spatula, slicing it in half and scooped a ladleful of the soup into his new white bowl. His crockery was courtesy of a shopping trip with Napoleon, who had insisted he get rid of his thrift shop dishes and get a matching set from Bamberger's department store. Illya had to admit, though they were plain white, he liked them. Somehow they gave him a feeling of permanence, something he had not felt in a very long time, not since he was a child.

The last thing he did was place it all on a tray, and carry it to his coffee table, where a copy of yesterday's New York Times awaited him. It was good to relax and catch up on life in the city sometimes. He too often buried his nose in a scientific journal, though UNCLE kept him informed well enough with world events.

It was a nice day, with the temperature in the fifties, not bad for March in New York and after lunch, if the didn't take a nap first, he'd go to Central Park and enjoy some fresh air and a peaceful walk.

Just as he was about to swallow his first spoonful of soup, there was a knock at his door. He sighed, recognizing his partner's code.

Napoleon let himself in, turning off the alarm instead of resetting it.

"Bad news chum, " he said eyeing Illya's lunch."We need to report to headquarters...the master calls."

"Tsk," the Russian looked longingly at his meal.

Napoleon saw the mask of disappointment on his partner's usually placid face. The man did love his food, and now to have to forego a meal the Russian actually made for himself was a shame, and that made the American have a change of heart. They had time...

"Okay go ahead and eat your lunch, I think Waverly can wait for few minutes."

"Thank you," Illya flashed his shy smile, appreciative of the gesture. "There is more soup on the stove, if you would care to join me."

"Chicken soup?"

"But of course..."

"Thanks, don't mind if I do." Napoleon grinned as he headed to the kitchen.

Napoleon sat beside his partner on the sofa, slurping up spoonfuls of soup, jokingly, like a little kid.

Illya chuckled, placing a napkin in front of his partner and giving him half his sandwich.

"No no, that's your lunch," he refused.

"And it is mine to share, "Illya insisted.

"Whatever you want buddy," Napoleon relented, taking a bite of it." Mmm, good. You make a mean grilled cheese tovarisch. Tell you what, I'll buy you another sandwich at the commissary after we're done with the Old Man."

Illya nodded his approval on that as he finished his lunch.

He was never one to refuse a free meal...

 


	41. Life's Fortunes

Napoleon and Illya sat at a table in the rear of a small Chinese restaurant called Double Happiness, picking at their appetizer called a 'flaming pu pu platter'.

The blond cracked open a fortune cookie he'd gotten and squinted at the small print, not having his reading glasses with him. He seemed a little annoyed not being able to see it and pursing his lips, he handed it to his partner.

"You read it please?"

Solo held the paper out in front of him, squinting a bit himself. "Hmm, rather appropriate. "Confucius says, He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day."

Napoleon looked up at his partner, his eyes widening, and saying only one word. "Duck."

"No, it was pu pu platter," Illya responded, "but Peking duck would be nice..."

"No, DUCK!"

Illya did as he was ordered, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a meat cleaver swish through the air over his head. He grabbed the hand holding it and pulling himself up, smashed it against the table, sending the cooking utensil flying, and skidding across the floor.

Another man charged, and Napoleon nonchalantly drew his special, darting the man into oblivion.

He and his partner paused for a moment, and as Illya straightened his jacket and tie he couldn't help but make a remark.

"Why can we ever not have a lunch in peace?"

"My sentiments exactly chum, "Napoleon sniffed as he reached for his cup of green tea, taking a sip from it.

"I suppose we should leave?" Illya shrugged,"Perhaps we can have our entree at another restaurant?"

It was obvious the Russian was still hungry.

"Sure, why not?" Napoleon smiled. "Hopefully no one will follow us again..."


	42. Up the Creek so to speak

They were in trouble, with not enough money in their pockets and no guns or communicators. They needed to get cash and get out of town, whether that was by land or by sea, it didn't matter, though the Russian did prefer land...

The UNCLE agents sat in a seedy bar in Veracruz, off the Gulf of Mexico and watched as two men sat, staring each other down with shot glasses filled with liquor were set up in front of them.

It was a good old fashioned drinking contest. There was good money to be had by the winner and Napoleon came up with the brilliant plan that his partner, being the tough Russian drinker that he was, should try his hand at the challenge and earn them the pesos they needed.

"Fine, I will, but I do not guarantee what will happen. We have not eaten in a few days and I may not get my usual results when trying to drink someone under the table. Keep in mind he is a local and..."

"You have a better shot at than I do chum, but if you can come up with a better idea, then I'm game," Napoleon whispered.

Illya shrugged his answer, not having a clue as to what else to do.

Soon the table was cleared for the next match and the glasses were poured, with everyone in the bar except Napoleon betting against the 'gringo'.

"They have no idea," Solo confidently snickered to himself.

Illya downed his first shot, making a strange face as he swallowed his drink, then the challenger drank his. The two men continued back and forth, turning their empty glasses bottoms up on the coarse wooden table and picking up their next drink.

Napoleon counted them, well over a dozen already. "You okay there?'

Kuryakin sat as stiff as a mannequin, staring, glassy-eyed while his opponent swayed. Everyone in the room moaned, waiting for the favorite to pass out.

One more drink...Kuryakin slowly hefted the glass in his hand, stopping suddenly as he keeled over; his head hitting the table with a dull thud, to the cheers of the crowd.

The other man swallowed one more drink before he too passed out, but still, he was one shot ahead and declared the winner.

"Aw crap, Illya what'd you do to us?" Napoleon groaned.

He helped his partner stagger to his feet, holding him tight about the waist. They headed out of the cantina and into the street. Napoleon for once had no idea what they were going to do, as he'd lost the last of their money betting on his friend.

"I thought you Russians could hold your vodka?"

"Vodka?" Illya slurred, "That was tequila..."he hiccuped and passed out again, dead weight in his partner's arms.


	43. The Gelatin Affair

Napoleon and Illya were, for once, deprived of their private rooms in medical. There had been an over abundance of wounded agents, some of whom required privacy in their last hours of life. THRUSH had be particularly brutal in their interrogations.

The mood in the medical wing was somber for the most part, as the nurses and doctors took the loss of an operative as a failure, just as Section II agents felt when a mission went bad in the field.

Medical had a high success rate in the recovery their patients, and were proud of that record, but today was a dark day for them.

"I heard Johnson and Sweeney might not make it," Napoleon spoke softly, cradling a broken arm, while trying to readjust the position of his broken leg that was propped on a pillow. He he had a very swollen jaw as he had a cracked tooth and would be getting a new crown to repair it, once he was ambulatory.

"As did I," Illya spoke through clenched teeth, as his jaw was quite swollen as well. One of his eyes was covered with a gauze bandage as was his left wrist and hand.

The two of them would be out of commission for a while; though Alexander Waverly was unhappy about their failure to obtain the plans for a new THRUSH project, still, he was relieved he hadn't lost his two best agents in the process.

There wasn't much to talk about, as their mission had been a bust and the two men lay there, waiting for their lunch to be delivered. They were hungry, and as usual, the Russian more so. A bowl of watered-down Farina as breakfast for both of them didn't quite cut it.

Nurses Kelly and Kingsley wheeled in the meal carts, setting up the tables across each of their beds.

"Hmmm so what do we have for lunch?" Napoleon eyed the covered plates.

As if planned in advance, the two nurses lifted the covers with fanfare.

"Taaaaa-daaaa!"

"Oh for cripes sakes, green jello?" Napoleon moaned. "What is it with the dietary staff here?"

"Yes," Illya spoke, practically spitting the words out. "There are other flavors besides lime? Or did they buy a lifetime supply of green gelatin?"

"There are other flavors...cherry, lemon or orange," Napoleon chimed in."

"I for one would like a nice red gelatin, red is a good strong color, and one I am accustomed to...given where I come from." Considering he was speaking through clenched teeth, his pronunciation of the words didn't quite have the ire he intended them to have.

"Sorry boys," Nurse Kelly apologized. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Kuryakin, grabbed the neatly formed jello squares from his bowl, and hurled them across the room where they landed against the wall and splattered into an interesting pattern, then began oozing their way to the floor.

Napoleon, tried not to grin with his swollen mouth, and did the same thing.

"Oh my God!" Kelly barked, "I swear you two can be so childish, it's only green jello."

"Only green jello?" Napoleon sneered back at her. "You try eating that crap day after day and see how you feel about it."

"Okay, I will," Nurse Kelly agreed.

Two days later, she arrived in their room carrying their covered lunch trays.

"Do not tell me, green jello again?" Kuryakin muttered.

Kelly uncovered the dishes revealing red and orange gelatin molds, in the shape of bunny rabbits, replete with marshmallow tails and jelly bean eyes.

"You were right about that green jello...awful stuff. So I made these at home for you and brought them in. I figured it's safe since you both have no signs of internal bleeding. You do know that's why it's always green jello...anything else might mask bleeding problems."

"Today's the last day you have to eat it, as you'll start getting real food tomorrow, and no more gelatin...so Happy Easter fellas."

"Ah miracles can happen," Napoleon smiled, as he leaned over, grabbing the plate with the red bunny from the cart. "Thank you."

"Hey, that one is mine..." Illya protested."Remember, red...Communist? And thank you Nurse Kelly, for remembering my preference for the color red."

"Leave it to you to turn an Easter Bunny jello mold into a political statement,"Napoleon snickered.

"No you two, the real miracle is that its Easter, and both Johnson and Sweeney are going to make it, "Nurse Kelly interrupted them.

"In that case, let us celebrate. Napoleon you may have the red one, "Illya smile at him.

"Yes, think kindly upon Johnson and Sweeney as they eat their green jello, guys" Kelly said as she walked out the door.


	44. A misogynist?

Mr. Solo!" The gorgeous brunette stood her ground, her arms crossed in front of her with her foot tapping loudly on the linoleum floor in the commissary. "Your attentions are unwanted and I don't appreciate you objectifying me as a woman.

"Sexual objectification?" Napoleon blurted out. "You have got to be kidding me? All I did was complement your hair."

"I know your kind," she snarled at him. "All you think is that a woman is nothing but an instrument of your sexual pleasure, simply an object of your own sexual gratification."

Napoleon raised his eyes, thinking all this she got out of a compliment to her hair?"

"I can't stand men like you...which is most men who only think with their...well, you know. If I didn't know better, I'd think deep down you actually hate women. After all sexual objectification is a form of misogyny."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Napoleon Solo had been accused of many things in his lifetime, but a woman-hater?"

"My dear, I think you're the one doing the hating here, and misandry is most unbecoming."

She turned up her nose at him, and spinning on her heels, she stormed away from him to a table off to the side.

Solo grabbed a cup of coffee, and a tea for Illya, along with a few danish, heading to their usual table in the back corner.

When the Russian arrived, Napoleon recounted the incident to him, but asked a question that was troubling him.

"Illya do I objectify women?"

"Hardly, you are most gentlemanly and treat them with the utmost of respect. You do not 'use' women, though your love of them could be misconstrued as misogynistic, not in the woman-hating sense but perhaps a an objectifier of women to those who do not know you."

"Thank you my friend, I needed that reassurance."

"Napoleon who was the woman in question?"

Solo nodded his head towards the left. "The brunette two tables over, Charlene King."

"Oh yes, she is the newest addition to Communications, "Illya whispered across the table. "I have heard her making some rather disparaging remarks about Aprils capabilities as a field agent...hmmm perhaps she is both a man and a woman-hater."

"Bad enough she hates men, but to target April Dancer?" Napoleon replied, "That won't do. April's earned her place in Section II and no one, man or woman has the right to question that. I think I'll be having a chat with George Dennell about Miss King, as some attitude adjustments might be in order..."


	45. Spring Wardrobe

"Spring has sprung," Napoleon announced, "Sunshine is around the corner. "Time for some new ties." He was standing in front of a table of neatly lined silk neckties, displayed at the local haberdasher he liked to frequent just a few blocks from headquarters.

"How many of these do you need?" Illya said, fingering a plain black one.

"And how many articles of black clothing do you need pal?" Solo shot back a him.

The Russian neatly folded the tie, putting it back on the table. "None. I do not 'need' anything. There are some articles of clothing I require to do my job and to dress properly, but I never need them. Not like you."

"You know you can get to be too much sometimes. And what the heck is wrong with a little color in your wardrobe? Just pick out a tie that isn't black and buy it for God sake. It won't mean the end of the world."

Illya huffed. "If it will make you happy, then fine, I will."

He looked across several tables of silk ties, all arranged in graduating shades of color. He finally picked a red and grey diagonal stripe. He was accustomed to the color red from his Communist upbringing, recalling the bright neckerchief adorned with the hammer and scickle he wore as a child at school.

"Will this do?" He asked his partner.

"Illya, you're getting it for yourself, not me. You have to like it. Though I do admit, it'll go well with your grey suit."

"Fine, I will purchase this one."

"How about a matching handkerchief?" Napoleon smiled.

"Just be happy I am getting the tie," the Russian gave a snarky reply.

He held it in his hand, not letting Solo see he was enjoying fingering the softness of the silk. All of his ties were serviceable black polyester.

Illya reminded himself he didn't 'need' it, but he really liked it.


	46. Wishful thinking

"Ah, Istanbul, how I remember it well," the Russian said, as he and his partner moved among the many spice and fruit vendors of the Egyptian bazaar.

"Yes," Napoleon agreed, "the pungent odor of something that hasn't been cleaned since...ever."

"Fruit flies and spiced meats, a lovely combination." Illya crinkled his nose and sneezed. "Yes the red pepper, mint, cumin do add to it."

"Don't forget the sumac and cinnamon," the American said, sniffing the air.

The roar of a motorbike barely alerted the agents as it sped past the two of them, nearly knocking them over.

"I do not miss that either," Illya mumbled. "I think the drivers here are the worst."

"I think Morocco," Napoleon countered, swatting a fly away from his face.

They both looked at each other, "Egypt," announcing it at the same time.

"Well maybe Paris too," Illya added.

"Ah Paris," Napoleon sighed blissfully, "The Eiffel tower, the Moulin Rouge...les girls. What I would give to be in Paris right now," he tugged at his collar, feeling the heat.

Illya tried not to breath in too deeply as he envisioned the boulangeries and bistros. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. "Right now, I would prefer Moskva."

"You would..."

"You do not prefer to be cooler than we are here?"

"Yes, but Paris would be comfortable enough for me and there's so many ladies there to occupy my time," He smiled again, letting his thoughts drift.

"Tsk." Illya shook his head at his partner's one-track mind. "Someday, when this world has straightened itself out, I will show you my country."

"Too cold for my taste," Napoleon smiled.

"Not when you have one or two of our beautiful Russian women to warm your bed." Illya elbowed him with a serious look, pointing to a man standing nervously in an alcove across the square.

"There is our target," he said, "the man in the white linen suit."

"Back to work chum," Solo nodded, his demeanor changing instantly as he reached for his Special.


	47. Chicken Wings

Napoleon sat at a picnic bench in Central Park, watching his partner devour his lunch, a take out order of barbecued chicken wings.

Illya gnawed away, getting every last bit of meat from the bone and then sucked on it. Once finished, he licked the sauce from each of his fingers before cleaning himself off with a paper napkin.

"What?" He looked up, staring at his friend who was in turn staring at the bare bones left in the container.

"A little hungry were you?" Napoleon remarked after swallowing the last bite of his hotdog. He was never one for 'finger foods," especially something as messy a chicken wings in sauce.

"Where I grew up nothing went to waste, as there was not ever enough food. You have never known that sort of hunger in your life Napoleon, to grow up always wanting more to eat, is was not, to say the least, very pleasant."

"Hey, I've been starved while on assignment, so I know what it's like to be hungry."

"Not the kind of hunger that eats away at a the body and soul of a child. It is different, and painful not only physically but mentally. Imagine watching your teachers eat well, smelling their roast chickens, potatoes and other delicious things that you could only dream of tasting. Yet you must sit there in silence and drink weak broths, maybe get a few turnips, and piece of stale bread, the portions of which were never enough. You hoped, maybe...just maybe, one of the teachers would toss you a chicken bone."

Illya's eyes glazed over as he spoke...

"My father and brother Dimitry were both tall, yet I am admittedly a small man. That is because I suffered from malnourishment in the orphanage where I grew up. That is something you could never understand."

"Even when I was agent for GRU in Paris, I was always hungry. My monthly stipend barely covered the rent for my room and I am convinced now that my Soviet masters kept me and many of their less-important agents hungry on purpose, it kept us on edge. Had it not been for my handler's concern at me becoming ill and dying on her, I probably would have not survived my assignment at the Sorbonne." *

"Her?" Napoleon smiled wryly.

"Yes, my handler was a woman and I will not speak of her, other than the fact was that she saw to it that I ate better."

"Sorry Illya, I never realized you had it that bad..."

"Napoleon, I do not want your pity, just your understanding," he stood up from the park bench, tossing the container with the bones into the trash. He paused for a moment, looking at them. "Back home those bones would have been boiled and the marrow sucked out of them. As I said nothing went to waste. They would have then been dried... afterwards, ground up and used as an analgesics to help the pain and swelling of arthritis in our old ones."

Napoleon took his chastisement in silence, as the two walked back to headquarters. One thing he knew for sure was that he'd never look again at chicken bones quite the same way.

.

* ref "First Kill"


	48. Too much

Napoleon rapped softly on the door, but there was no response, though he and his partner were expected. Kuryakin knelt on one knee in front of the old apartment door that had been covered in too many layers of black gloss paint year after year. Parts of it were peeling, and the brass door handle was dulled with age.

He made quick work with his loc-pic while his partner stood behind him while keeping watch.

"Done," the Russian whispered as he turned the knob, slowly opening the door, hoping it wouldn't creek.

They quickly stepped inside, and stopped dead in their tracks as the saw the hallway was lined on either with row upon row of book and other odds and ends stacked higher than the both of them.

The place smelled of dust and old dry paper as they made their way through the narrow opening, following it to the next room that was filled with even more 'things.' They continued through the apartment finding the same piles of hoarded goods.

Napoleon picked up a yellowed newspaper gathered with stacks of others, and read the date. "October 15th, 1957." His eyebrows raised in surprise. "My God, if this stuff were to fall over, no one would know we were here. Let's find the professor and get out of this fire trap post-haste."

Illya nodded his agreement; they forged ahead through the mess, and finally spotted an old man sleeping in a careworn high-back chair, with a mug resting precariously in his lap. He turned his nose up a the stained porcelain, trying not to imagine the shape of the kitchen in this place. Illya carefully removed the cup from the man's hands before it spilled, though why he was concerned about it, he didn't know.

"Professor?" He spoke softy." Professor Harrington."

"What...errr ahem, yes, yes," the man spoke groggily.

"We're from UNCLE Professor. Remember, we spoke on the telephone and were coming to get you?" Napoleon said.

"Why yes," cough. "I do. Might I offer you gentlemen a cup of tea?"

"Professor we need to move quickly before we have any company," Illya spoke impatiently. He was eager to get out of this pile of trash.

"Oh, yes, yes. Let me just get my notes," Harrington said, and began rifling through a stack of papers. "Hmm, let me see, I think they were here."

"Professor, how can you find anything in...this?" Napoleon gestured with a wave of his hand.

"Young man, I know where everything is in this place. You name a year and I can tell you exactly which stack of newspapers it is. It may not seem like it, but there is a method to this madness."

"Why do you keep all these old papers Professor?" Illya asked.

"To read of course. There is so much and it does take time you know. I read every one from front page to last, and of course there's my books." He spoke as though that was an achievement.

Illya cocked an eyebrow, looking at this partner.

"Ah here are my notes," the professor proudly smiled, "Hmmm, now where's my coat?" He smiled sheepishly. " There are some things I'm not so good at keeping track of..."

There was no need to look as Napoleon knew the Russian was rolling his eyes.


	49. Rainy Day Revenge

It was like any other rainy day in New York, as a low cloud ceiling hid the building tops from view; even the countless grey pigeons blended into the dreary background.

Illya Kuryakin had donned his black trench coat and black cap, choosing to walk the few blocks to headquarters rather than spend the money on a taxi. He really didn't mind it and found the weather fairly refreshing until the soft rain turned into a downpour.

When it began to fall in torrents, he questioned the wisdom of his decision. Perhaps Napoleon was right, maybe he was cheap. He whistled loudly, hailing a checkered cab for the remainder of his journey to Del Floria's.

The brass bell on the door of tailor shop tinkled its greeting as he stepped inside, still dripping wet as the sky had opened up again, just as he stepped from the cab.

Del looked up, seeing the Russian's condition, as well as his floor. "Ah Mr. K, let me have your hat and coat, I'll get them dried for you," he said, practically pulling the outerwear off the agent.

"Thank you Del, but I will keep on my suit jacket." He had another one in his office, his usual black. Illya shook his head in amusement at the face the man made at him, before proceeding to the dressing room and through the agents entrance.

"Oh my goodness, you poor thing look at you, you're soaked...you must be chilled to the bone!" Wanda called out. Just as Illya was about to respond to this unprecedented bit of attention, his partner stepped into view.

"I can think of some ways you can warm me up." Solo grinned.

"Oh Napoleon," Wanda blushed as she pinned his badge on his lapel.

A moment later she turned her attention to Kuryakin, wordlessly handing him his badge as she did like any other day, but no taking notice of his state of 'dampness' equal to that of his partner.

Illya huffed his annoyance, suddenly taking off his suit jacket, giving it a shake and sending a spray of water at Wanda and his partner; he disappeared through the secondary entrance, snickering to himself as he heard their shouts of protest.

He thought to himself, today wasn't starting off too badly after all...


	50. The lengths we go to

Footsteps echoed on the cobblestones and as they came nearer, the person walking began to slowly whistle...it was the melody to "Mary Had a little Lamb."

Illya Kuryakin was sitting at a bistro table set on the sidewalk in front of "Les émigrants." He'd been waiting for that signal...someone whistling and turned to see who was approaching.

It was Mark Slate, and as Illya stepped up from his chair his fellow agent bumped into him, making the handoff."

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur," Mark said, continuing past, giving Illya little notice. The Russian tossed some francs to the table, paying his bill and continued off in the opposite direction, heading down the street.

Drip, drop...rain began to fall, with Iilya pulling up the collar of his black trench coat, but it did little good as the few droplets turned into a downpour.

His feet splashed in rain water that had pooled into puddles on the sidewalk as he increased his pace to a trot, turning the corner quickly.

There was a woman wearing a bright yellow slicker, holding a yellow umbrella with red polka dots over her red head. As Illya passed her, he made the handoff with a sigh, not too happy he was now soaked. There'd be no time to head to the hotel to change, as he'd have to make the rendezvous point and just be a little damp. Such intrigue over something so little...

The woman in yellow walked in the opposite direction, holding tight to the wrapped package she'd slipped into a bag she was carrying.

Ten minutes later, Illya entered a small café, and removing his coat; he hung it up on a rack to dry as he spotted his partner sitting at a table by the fire, sipping a glass of wine.

"Napoleon, why all this secrecy? We could have just met at the hotel bar,"Illya said pulling up a chair behind him. He noticed the shoulders of his partner's jacket were just a little bit damp as well, and surmised the American had been out and about as he, Mark and April suspected he would be...no doubt following at least one of them.

The door to the café opened, and in walked Mark Slate, a moment later followed by the woman in the yellow slicker...April Dancer.

She came forward, approaching Napoleon and giving him a peck on the cheek. "Happy Anniversary darling." She placed a slightly damp package on the table in front of him.

"For me?" He grinned, "You shouldn't have."

"Any man who's made it this long with UNCLE and lives to tell the tale deserves a little something other than a certificate in his personnel file, mate," Mark chimed in.

"You know darn well you were trying to find out if we bought you something Napoleon Solo. So we had a few 'hand-offs," just to keep you guessing. We knew you'd be following one if not all of us eventually." April laughed softly as only she could.

Napoleon laughed, agreeing with her.."I must be slipping, you had me pegged pretty well." He lifted the package, testing it's weight, and tore away the wrapping, inside the box was a dark silk tie with a fleur-de-lis, a matching handkerchief, as well a sterling silver tie bar, and matching cuff links also sporting a raised fleur-de-lis.

"Well do you like it goose?" April asked.

"I do very much, along with the efforts to hide it from me. Now I'll always have Paris with me, literally."

They raised their glasses of wine, and offered a toast. "Vive le Napoléon!"

"Merci. Merci mes amis," Napoleon thanked them with enthusiasm.

And for once Illya made no wise crack about his partner's accent.


	51. A renning we will go

Illya tugged and pulled at the dark green tights he was wearing, over them he was clad in a long sleeve white shirt, and a tight short-sleeved brown leather jerkin. Covering his blond locks was a green felt huntsman's cap, sporting a long pheasant feather.

He was armed with his Special, tucked beneath the jerkin, but carried a dagger in a scabbard on his belt. Slung over his shoulder was a quiver of arrows, and a long bow. He was carrying a small turtle-back mandolin and was softly strumming on it, between the tugs at his leggings.

"Look, Robin Kuryakin, will you leave those things alone," Napoleon said out of the side of his mouth. Solo too was dressed in a period costume, dark blue velvet top, with billowing white sleeves and grey leotards, along with an oversized velvet beret with a white ostrich plume tucked in it. His weapon too was concealed,but within one of his sleeves.

"I cannot help it...they are bunching up in the wrong places, if you know what I mean. It is very uncomfortable and I am hot in this ridiculous get up. I swear, the wardrobe department knows my size, yet still they manage to give me clothing that is too small."

Napoleon snickered knowingly. "Stop complaining, at least you're not dressed in velvet, now talk about hot."

An auburn haired woman stepped up to them dressed in a magnificent burgundy and gold lamé gown, with a gossamer veil held in place on her head by a simple circlet of gold.

"Illya will you leave your tights alone, you look ridiculous pulling at them," April whispered.

"They are bunching and I am hot," the Russian repeated his complaints.

"Oy, you think you're uncomfortable mates, try moving about with extra padding in a Father Tuck costume, not to mention the tonsure headpiece I'm wearing. Why of all places but a Renaissance festival would THRUSH decide to set up shop?" Mark pointed out.

"It gives them a week of being costumed undercover to distribute to the local operatives, the new drug their mad scientists have developed," Illya whispered, still tugging at the back of his tights.

"Thank you for reminding me guv, like I forgot the mission, "Mark snapped back at the Russian.

"Come on now darlings, play nice. I think we need to scatter and keep an eye out for any new bird sightings."

"Good point April," Napoleon agreed, lets separate. Illya you continue troubadouring, Mark stay by the tent where they're selling mutton joints, April you keep pretending to shop and I'll continue to look like I'm wenching," Napoleon said the last with a wicked smile.

"Well just do not get so distracted with said 'wenching' that you miss what is going on at the Apothecary tent," Illya warned.

Napoleon responded with a "Tsk."

They'd already taken down three THRUSH agents who'd made their pickups at the Apothecary, carrying a vial of the drug in a small red velvet pouch tied to their belts. An UNCLE van parked out of sight in the woods was ready and waiting to receive any new prisoners they were sent by the four Section II agents. Once the Faire was coming to a close, they'd be able move in and take possession of the Apothecary and all his wares without disturbing the crowds, as they'd be gone for the most part.

As the four UNCLE agents approached the tent at the end of the day, they thought it would be a cinch, but the Thrushman seeing them, pulled up his long robes and ran toward the woods. Before anyone could draw their pistols, Illya swung round his bow, notched an arrow and got off a shot...hitting the bird in the right buttock. He went down to the ground with a yelp.

"We could have darted him," Napoleon said as they took the man into custody.

"I thought since there were still some innocents around, they might think it just part of the day's demonstrations."

"Hmmm, clever darling," April said, not able to help herself; she kept looking down at Illya's nether regions.

"Might we get out of here so I can change," Illya practically growled," I can no longer stand these tights."

April took note as Napoleon tried to hide his amusement. "Do you know something I don't know goose?

"I told wardrobe to give him a pair of extra small tights..."he whispered.

"Oh you are rotten," April blurted out, " but have to admit, I did enjoy the view."

"Why April Dancer!" Napoleon smiled.

"Hey, you can wench, so why can't I admire a cute Russian in a pair of revealing tights.''

"Fair play, but mum's the word to Illya."

"My lips are sealed. Hmm want to go watch some jousting, there's one match left and I do so admire men with long..."

"April!" Napoleon stopped her.

"Dearest, get your mind out of the gutter," April smiled mischievously.

 


	52. A noble gesture

The air was filled with cigarette smoke along with scent of alcohol and the heady fragrance of ladies' perfume.

Napoleon Solo sat on a bar stool opposite a dark-haired, and equally dark-eyed beauty. She leaned gracefully against her fingertips, with her long dragon nails painted a vivid shade of red, to match the color of her full and pouting lips.

Though he was in Shanghai, she didn't look Oriental, yet her speech pattern was one that a person raised in this part of the world had when speaking English, speaking with distinct pauses and enunciation of words.

The woman was exotic, her voice deep and sultry and she'd definitely caught the American's interest. She was clothed in a clinging dark green silk dress, but one more European than Chinese, and it clung to her in all the right places, revealing a curvaceous figure.

Napoleon had no doubt, she was an expensive call girl, and an American would be a worthy target, able to afford her price. Somewhere in the bar her pimp was surely watching them, possibly waiting for an opportunity to hustle an unsuspecting foreigner out of his money.

He succumbed to her charms, but only as far as buying her a drink.

"You know, you really are too beautiful to be in your line of work," he smiled at her. 'Tell me, is that your pimp sitting at the table by bottom of the stairs?"

"She smiled nervously,"How did you know that? I did not even proposition you yet."

"I have my ways."

"So you are not just an American businessman." She continued to smile, not wanting her pimp to see she hadn't asked the handsome dark-haired man to go with her to the hotel room reserved to service her clients.

"No. My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo...and you are?"

"Cherise," she sipped her drink, smiling again and trying to put on a good act.

"Well Cherise, would you like to get out of your line of work? As I said you're too beautiful for that."

"Yes, but he...watches me constantly. I am the crowning glory in his stable. I will never escape him. " There was a flicker of fear behind her smile.

"I can help you."

"Honestly Napoleon, I have heard that before. It is just another line for a man to get me to spread my legs for him."

"Hmmm, perhaps a demonstration of my good intentions. What's his name?"

" _Xun Zhi hao_ , he is aptly named as he seeks great wealth, but does it using innocent women and children to achieve his goal."

"Wait right here." Solo rose from the stool, sauntering over to where her handler sat sipping a drink with a little yellow paper umbrella in it.

Napoleon stood in front of him, blocking the man's view of the girl.

"Mr. Xun?"

"Who wants to know  _gweilo_?" He began to reach inside his jacket but Napoleon didn't wait to see if he was going for a gun and hit him under the chin with a lightning-fast right uppercut.

The man's head whipped back, his mouth bloodied as he'd bitten his tongue. His eyes rolled, but he was still conscious, and Solo finished the job with a karate chop to the man's neck.  _Xun Zhi hao_  slumped forward onto the table.

Napoleon reached into the man's pocket, pulling out a wad of cash.

It was done with little fuss and notice to the other patrons of the bar. A waiter walked past, looking at the unconscious man, then at the American.

"Couldn't hold his liquor," Napoleon said, shooting his cuffs, and straightening his tie; he returned to the waiting girl.

He took hold of her hand, shoving the money into it. "Don't go back to where you live, forget everything and just get out of the city as fast as you can."

Cherise stood with her mouth open, staring first at the huge amount of cash, and back to the American. She leaned forward, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

_"Xièxiè!_ "

"You're welcome. Now go on, get out of here," Napoleon whispered. He watched as she darted to the door, and was gone.

He straightened his tie once more, cocking an eyebrow as he surveyed the patrons who'd gone back about their business as if nothing had happened, and headed out the door himself before the pimp regained consciousness...

 

 

 


	53. Listen to the Mockingbird

"What the hell is that chirping? And what bird does that at night?"Napoleon demanded as it was one in the morning, while he tried to make himself more comfortable on the sofa, unable to sleep because of the noise.

He and his partner were stuck in a safe house in the middle of an underdeveloped part of New Jersey, guarding a higher ranking THRUSH operative with close ties to Central, who'd decided to defect to U.N.C.L.E. now that he was approaching retirement age.

He was well aware that a gold pocket watch and a send off banquet didn't lead to a snug hideaway on a tropical island. It was standard procedure to execute those leaving T.H.R.U.S.H. though a ruse was maintained by Central to make their agents believe they'd get a nice secluded place as part of their retirement package.

"That is not chirping," Illya said, leaning back in an easy chair, his choice of sleeping place, as their charge had the only bedroom. It was either the chair or the floor since Napoleon had called first dibs on the couch. "It is  _Mimus polyglottos_ , a bird of the _Mimidae_  family known as a Northern mockingbird."

"Okay here we go..." Napoleon rolled his eyes, knowing he was in for a lecture, and mentally kicked himself for asking his questions.

"Mockingbirds are known for their habit of mimicking the songs of other birds, andthe sounds of insects as well as some amphibians. They often do it loudly and in rapid succession, singing in the late hours through dawn, though there are some who will sing during the daylight hours. Did you know there are seventeen species in three genera? These do not appear to form a monophyletic lineage: _Mimus_  and _Nesomimus_  are closely related; though their closest living relatives appear to be some thrashers, such as the Sage Thrasher.  _Melanotis_  is more distinct as it seems to represent a very ancient basal lineage of Mimidae"

Illya looked over with amusement in his blue eyes at his partner who was now sound asleep; he knew the little lecture on mockingbirds undoubtedly finally lulled him to sleep. His lectures had that sort of effect on Napoleon, though he had no idea, as they were usually on fascinating subjects.

"Better a  _Mimus polyglottos_ than a _Turdidae,"_ Illya mused to himself. One THRUSH in the bedroom was enough.

The Russian snuggled into his chair as best he could, pulling a throw blanket up over him as smiled, listening to the pleasant bird song outside the cabin as he closed his own eyes and drifted off himself.

 


	54. What are you afraid of?

UNCLE's two top agents sat holed up in a cave in the Adirondacks, trapped there with no means of escape. They'd gotten off a distress signal before the frequency was cut off by some sort of jamming device, and hoped it had lasted long enough for the local field office to have picked it up.

Both men sat in silence while they returned a periodic shot fired at them by the half-dozen or so murderous moonshiners who'd cornered them.

Napoleon and Illya had surprisingly stumbled upon a hooch-slash-bomb making operation with the men somehow having had aligned themselves with THRUSH.

"Who would have thought, Moonshiner Anarchists?" Napoleon quipped as he and Illya had run from them; they were just too out-numbered.

Solo looked at his partner, seemingly lost in thought. "Making your peace just in case?"

"You should know by now that I expect to die on every mission, so 'making peace' as you call it is not a consideration."

"Oh, that's true," the American's hushed tones echoed slightly against the darkened cave walls "I forgot, you're not the optimistic type."

"No optimism is your purview my friend."

There was silence again for a few minutes before Illya spoke up again.

"Napoleon what do you fear the most? Is it death?"

He was taken back by that question. "Fear? I don't think I've ever really thought about it. I know it's not death, otherwise I would have chosen another profession. If I had to pick something I was afraid of, it would be dying alone..."

Illya nodded his head, saying nothing in response.

"Well aren't you going to say something encouraging like, 'I'm your best friend and I'll never let you die alone?"

"No. I may have your back Napoleon, but I cannot be with you twenty-four hours, seven days a week, so that would not be possible."

"Gee thanks for cheering me up." Solo repositioned himself, after another bullet ricocheted a little too close for comfort.

"You are welcome," Illya tried not to snicker.

"And what about you? What are you afraid of Illya Kuryakin?"

"Me?

"Yes you. You're the one who started this, now answer the question."

The Russian barely paused, giving his answer immediately. "I am afraid of nothing. I am the fatalist remember? I expect the worst always, that way if things do not go bad, I have a pleasant surprise."

"You're such a liar Illya Nickovich." Napoleon smiled as he heard helicopter blades whipping the air in the distance." Ugh oh."

"What is wrong?"

"I suddenly thought... I'm afraid it could be THRUSH reinforcements and not ours..." Napoleon shrugged.

"No no Napoleon, I am the fatalist, you are the optimist remember? Now ready?" Illya smiled at him before they made their exit from the cave, guns blazing fearlessly.

 


	55. Domestic Drama

Napoleon Solo stood in the doorway to his apartment with his mouth hanging open.

The beautiful but stern-looking blonde facing him was rather adamant about her dilemma as she was quite obviously pregnant, roughly four months she said.

He ushered her inside, offering the distraught woman a seat and a glass of water.

"I don't want water," she whined. "I want you to step up and take responsibility for this little gift you've given me."

At first he was at a loss, and poured himself a stiff drink of scotch while he gathered his thoughts.

"Madeline, I don't want to sound indelicate, but how can you say it's mine? I did use a condom after all."

She grew red in the face, because you were the only one." She stuck out her lower lip, looking rather petulant.

He didn't believe her, but was willing to listen to keep her calm, given her delicate condition.

"When are you due?"

"July."

He did the math, knowing they'd been together on New Year's Eve, and the next day. Her due date confirmed he couldn't be the father. "Madeline, we ummm, were together the first of the year and that was the last time they'd seen each other. "If you're four months along and due in July, that means you conceived your child some time in November.

"No no, it has to be you,'she sniffled.

"Who were you with before New Year's...not to get too personal?" He cringed just a little asking her that.

"Well there was Frank from accounting, Luke from Section III, Ted from Security, Roger in Translation, Peter...no he was in December. I think that was everyone in November... "

"So you were saying I was the only one?"

"Well yes, since New Year's...I made a resolution to cut back. I guess I did it a little too late?" She shrugged sheepishly.

Napoleon's eyes went wider as the list went on."Perhaps, when the baby is born it would be best to simply have a paternity test just to confirm who the dad really is? Now I know you seem to want it to be me, but it's just not biologically possible. If I were indeed the father...I would see you and the child were provided for; just understand Madeline, I couldn't marry you, even though that would be the right thing to do as well."

"Really you'd do that for me...and the baby?"

"Yes, but since I'm not possibly the father, then we need to make sure whoever it is does the right thing, since you've named only UNCLE personnel...I am correct in assuming this?

"Yes, only guys from work. I just couldn't control myself, you're all so handsome and..."

Are you feeling better now? He lifted a stray strand of hair away from her eyes.

"Yes Napoleon, and I'm sorry for accusing you."

"It's fine Madeline, you're in a very emotional state right now. Let me call you a taxi, I think it's best you go home and lay down for a while."

"I am sort of tired, being in a family way isn't that easy,especially when you're by yourself," she sighed.

Napoleon saw her downstairs and outside to the waiting taxi and just before she stepped in, she reached over, giving him a peck on the cheek.

As the taxi pulled away Solo let out a long sigh. The idea of becoming a father gave him the chills...not that he didn't ever want to have a child, but at this stage in his life he thought about the repercussions of fatherhood. Yet still, when she'd said he was the father, he did feel a momentary pang of excitement.

"Hmmm, perhaps someday," Napoleon thought to himself wistfully, that was if the Solo luck remained intact and he lived to reach retirement age...

 


	56. Standing up for yourself

It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when he'd finally woken up, knowing he'd have get out of bed, shower and ready himself for the meeting at headquarters.

He wasn't looking forward to it as the project he'd been spearheading was under a barrage of criticism even before anyone had laid an eye on it.

Illya Kuryakin was being challenged by certain individuals within Section II and he felt...well he wasn't quite sure how he felt. He was guarded, annoyed, testy and would be heading into this meeting, perhaps, with a chip on his shoulder.

He would have to defend his choices, and put up with a few challenges to his abilities and capabilities, and he didn't like it one bit.

It was fine to question the material but not the man. He would no doubt be ganged up on.

Napoleon was away on assignment in Rome, and Mr. Waverly gone on holiday to visit his grandchildren for the week. That left the Russian on his own.

Not that he needed them to be here, though they both were in his corner, especially Napoleon who always had his back.

There were those at headquarters who still resented the fact they had a Soviet in their presence, and were always seeing a 'fifth column' in his shadow.

He tired at times having his loyalty to the Command questioned. Was it that making him want to stay in bed all day and not wanting to get out of it? He wasn't like that at all, wanting to hide under his bed covers...

Illya finally threw back the blankets and headed to his bathroom, showering and shaving. He dressed himself in one of his better suits...they grey one and put on his red striped tie. That made him feel better as that was the one his partner helped him pick out at Solo's favorite haberdasher, when Napoleon insisted he needed more color in his wardrobe. It was like his partner was with him in a way, the tie being his talisman, or perhaps a shield in his mind.

He remembered the wonderful feel of the silk and now he stood in front of his mirror, at first knotting the tie into a full Windsor.

"No," He wryly smiled, suddenly remembering a line from the fictitious James Bond spy movie 'From Russia with Love.'

_"Bond mistrusted anyone who tied his tie with a Windsor knot. It showed too much vanity. It was often the mark of a cad."_ Though it was just fiction, somehow the line made sense to him.

Illya changed it to a half-Windsor instead, smiling at the thought. "They would be thinking badly enough of him as it were, no need for them to think he was a cad as well." He left his apartment, laughing to himself at the odd thoughts boosting his confidence.

"This was going to be an interesting meeting indeed," he smiled as he fingered the silk tie, as if conjuring his partner, like Aladdin rubbing his magic lamp.

That made him laugh, picturing Napoleon dressed as a genie. Yes, amusing thoughts indeed, that was what he needed. Perhaps he should just envision the nay-sayers at the meeting in their underwear...wearing neckties with full-Windsor knots.

"Snicker."

 


	57. Nina

Illya was alone at last, finding the peace and quiet of his apartment most satisfying at the moment. He'd made the mistake of accepting a double date with his partner, though he knew he'd find no enjoyment, and if there was any, it would doubtlessly be short-lived.

Napoleon practically begged him to accept the invitation as the girl he was taking out would only go with him if he'd found a date for her roommate.

It was against Illya's better judgement, but he accepted it for his partner's sake.

They sat Napoleon's regular table at the 21 Club, and it was all Kuryakin could do not to stare at the girl.

Solo's smart remarks about Russian women being homely would have held true for this one. She did have flawless pale skin as did many people of Slavic extraction, her blonde hair was not well managed, being somewhat over teased, her laugh was indescribable, seemingly close to the bray of a donkey, and during the course of conversation her eyes drifted close to being crossed.

It was most distracting, and sadly she was not the best of conversationalists either. There was no hope here for a pleasant evening. Illya supposed that if she were drop-dead gorgeous, he'd have let his libido kick in for once, but she wasn't and that he supposed was why her roommate Erica was trying to get dates for the poor girl.

Illya could be kind and charitable enough and was still a gentleman, but he drew the line when the girl started flirting at him with those crossed eyes.

He wasn't lying when he begged off, saying he had a terrible headache. He left his half of the check, plus a little something for his date's cab fare home.

Napoleon, though disappointed his partner was leaving, but knew the headache was legitimate when the Russian had left nearly his entire dinner uneaten...

Illya said his goodnights and headed home.

After arriving home he snuggled up on his old lumpy green sofa, after having taken a couple of aspirin tablets along with a shot of vodka, and dimmed the lights; hoping that would help the pain in his head go away.

Everything was nicely quiet when he heard a thud in the kitchen and recognized the sound of the kitten he was fostering. The one Napoleon accused of being a wild beast when she clawed his arm while trying to save herself from falling from the sofa.*

She'd grown long and sleek, and he guessed she was somewhere around seven months old now, and Illya had to admit he'd grown overly fond of the little black cat.

He'd finally given her a name. Nina, after one of his favorite singers Nina Simone, who purred like a kitten when she sang.

The kitten jumped up onto his lap with a soft "prrrrt" and flopped onto her side and she always did. She could be mischievously playful, yet very laid back at times.

As he ran his hand across her sleek fur, she began to purr loudly, and that he found very soothing.

Illya signed, wishing his damnable headache would go away, and as soon as he thought that, Nina climbed up his chest. She wrapped herself around the back of his neck, with her head resting on his shoulder and began to purr again.

'Purrrrrrrr."

He closed his eyes, with a smile, as his headache began to fade.

"Spacibo, malyshka_thank you baby."

He decided perhaps this one might be a keeper for himself. Nina was good company, fared well when he was away and the unconditional love she showed him was good for his spirit.

"Yes Nina, it is you who are my girl," he smiled.

"Miaow..."

.

* Snapshots~ "Wild Kingdom"

 


	58. Issues in the workplace

"Napoleon, I do not understand this place at times?" Illya pondered as they walked together, heading towards their office amidst other personnel scurrying along the busy UNCLE corridor.

"Why's that?"

"It is supposed to be the land of the free is it not?"

"Not supposed to be, it is."

"Not from my point of view."

Solo stopped, staring at his partner. "Okay, you need to explain that please?"

"Your freedom of speech for instance... yes, you can state your opinion, yet you are set upon by those who think their ideas and belief systems supercede your own. It is a very one-sided attitude, and to me a form of bullying. I thought I left that sort of thing back in the Soviet Union."

Napoleon squinted one eye at the Russian. "What happened?"

Kuryakin lowered his voice not wanting other to hear,"There is a man in Research and Development, a project leader, who holds a very high opinion of his himself and his own point of view. He has an obvious lack of good will toward people such as myself whose opinions diverge from his. A number of others who work for him seem to feel the need to imitate his prejudices, especially if the one voicing the opinion is a 'foreigner.' I suppose those of us who were not born here have not blended enough to suit their standards."

"Really?" Napoleon was surprised at what he was hearing.

"It amazes me how some of them kowtow to his every whim. They've seemingly put him on a pedestal of sorts and are blissfully unaware he is in reality, self-serving, and is using them to gratify his rather large ego. They are caught up in a delusion, as if association with this man makes them feel more important. It is a very strange symbiotic relationship of sorts."

"Not a very comfortable situation for you chum. Does his and their behavior affect their work or yours for that matter?"

"I am not involved in their projects per se, but have observed their output is adequate... nothing I would call outstanding. I keep to myself and concentrate on my own work as it is less confrontational and they rarely ask for my assistance with their work. Yet, mind you, they exert themselves on any topic, usually unsolicited, and not just regarding scientific endeavors. There are a few others in the lab who I can chat with periodically, usually out of earshot from the...well, naysayers, for lack of a better term. I can live with it but I have observed those who have also experienced problems have become more withdrawn. They have to deal with it on a daily basis, where as I come and go."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, slapping a reassuring hand on his partner's shoulder.

"What can I say, there's a lot of people who are so egocentric, they can't see and accept another's view. Only their way of thinking is valid, and nothing else matters. It's a shame they influence others".

"Precisely!" Illya became very animated. "It is most perplexing. Should not everyone have a right to their opinions, and to voice them, and should they not be acknowledged and treated with respect even if they differ?

"Yes that's the way it supposed to be, but when it comes to ones as you described, they won't listen to reason, as their point of view is what's preeminent." Solo and his partner turned a corner, heading to the elevator. "What about the Section head, is he aware of this?"

"I do not think so, as the man is usually occupied in his office and rarely hears the conversations going on in the lab. He only emerges for updates on the work," Illya shrugged.

"I can do something about this if you want me to. Who is this lab rat anyway, sounds like someone who hasn't embraced the ideals of U.N.C.L.E. and is infecting others with his bad attitude. He might be in need of some counseling," Napoleons brow furrowed.

"I would rather not say as it is better to just let sleeping dogs lie," Illya said. "I have become accustomed to dealing with him, though I suppose those such as he, alienates more people than he garners to his little entourage."

"Fair enough; but if things escalate, let me know Illya. Those kind of people live in their own little world of ignorance; eventually reality it catches up with them and things fall apart when people...good people cop on to the game-playing and machinations." Napoleon paused, " I won't pursue the matter on your say so, just as long he doesn't ramp things up or if the work doesn't become shoddy."

"Thank you Napoleon. I feel much better now, getting it off my chest helped...so much so that I am ready for lunch." The Russian grinned.

"Tovarisch, you're always ready for lunch," Solo chuckled.

Inspite of what he'd said about not pursuing the issue, Napoleon planned do a little investigating of his own to keep himself abreast of the situation. When and if the time came for counseling or perhaps dismissal, he'd have a file ready to go. As CEA it was his duty to monitor such goings on. In the meantime, he'd see to it the Section head got out of his office more often.

In spite of Illya protestations, he'd always have his friend's back whether he liked it or not

There were only so many things that would be permitted to slide within the Command, under the understanding the staff was simply human, with human frailties. Still, everyone had the right to work in an environment free of intolerance. Solo would see to it eventually, if not for the sake of his partner, but for others as well.

Waverly wouldn't be too pleased to hear about this sort of thing going on, though the CEA wouldn't be surprised if the Old Man didn't know about it already and was formulating his own solution, one that might not be too kind.

Napoleon snickered, suspecting the ring leader could easily find himself transferred to an UNCLE research facility in Antarctica in the blink of an eye, where he'd have a difficult time bullying penguins.

 


	59. Stir Crazy

Compared to previous accommodations where Napoleon Solo had been held prisoner, this was deluxe by any standards.

His cell was immaculate, painted completely white, from floor to ceiling. There was a porcelain sink and commode both white as well.

The mattress on his bed, which was bolted to the floor, was clean, soft and covered with a sheet and a surprisingly luxurious blanket, also white. There was even a soft pillow. The door was solid steel, and there was a single barred window in one wall, but the view to the outside world was too high for him to reach.

He had absolutely no memory of how he'd gotten here or how long he'd been unconscious. It had to have been more than twenty-four hours though as he had a light beard at this point.

Napoleon walked around his cell, checking every nook and cranny as a possible means of escape, but there were none to be had. And so he sat, twiddling his thumbs as he waited for his captors to show themselves.

A metallic thunk a the base of the door caught his attention and a small trap door opened, through which a metal tray was passed.

Food...

He looked at the plate, studying it for a few minutes, checking the food for foreign objects, and finally gave it a sniff. It passed the test and he dug in, figuring if it was drugged, what was the use in starving, as who ever these people were; they could inject him with drugs just as easily, or even vent some sort of chemicals in to his cell. Poison just wouldn't make any sense.

The food was surprisingly good , a Salisbury steak that had been sliced into edible sized bites, mashed potatoes with gravy and peas. A tall glass filled with milk and a plastic fork as his eating utensil. There was even was a small plate of Oreo cookies.

Whoever these people were, they sure knew how to treat a prisoner...

As the days passed, he was fed three square meals a day, but never saw a soul, or heard a human voice.

Solo passed the time napping, pacing and eventually doing push-ups and sit-ups to keep himself active.

By what he guessed was the seventh day, his clothes were pretty ripe and along with his breakfast of waffles and sausages and orange juice he received clean skivvies and pair of fresh white coveralls that were surprisingly soft and comfortable.

He took a nap after eating and cursed himself for not waking, as his clothes were gone...someone had been in his cell.

Napoleon yelled out, as his patience wearing thin,"Okay who are you people and why are you holding me here?"

Nothing, no response whatsoever.

By what he assumed was the third week, he was going stir crazy, and had begun, out of boredom, reciting poetry...anything to keep his mind sharp.

He lay curled up on his bed, mindlessly scratching his beard when the door to his cell opened and in stepped Alexander Waverly.

"Congratulation Mr. Solo, you have passed psychological testing. It's over, you can come out now."

He squinted at his boss. "A test? This was all just a test?"

"Yes a test of endurance, dealing with true solitary confinement."

Napoleon rose from his bed, stretching his arms and shoulders.

"Rather cushy setting for a test, don't you think?" He stepped up to Waverly.

"Yes quite, it was surmised that giving you a comfortable environment would throw you off. They wanted to see how you would react to such unusually...captivating circumstances."

"Tell me sir, was this test given to Mr. Kuryakin?"

"No it was deemed unnecessary as he has be held prisoner under so many different circumstances and always managed to come through with flying colors. You however have not had as many such experiences of solitude as our Russian operative."

"Lucky me." Napoleon frowned.

"How do you feel Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked as they exited the cell.

"Claustrophobic."

"Beg pardon?"

"I feel like taking a walk in the park," Napoleon smiled.

"Oh yes, now I understand. Indeed, I imagine that would be quite appropriate. Once you've had a consultation with Dr. Hayes you may do just that."

"Consultation with Psyche? Is that really necessary?" The senior agent asked.

"Well we do want to make sure you're not suffering any residual effects from your confinement, or harboring any ill-will for being tested this way."

"Trust me sir, I'm fine," Napoleon said. "May I ask the date and time?"

It's April the 11th and just before 5 p.m. Why do you ask?" Waverly said as they walked down the Security corridor together towards the elevator.

"I have a date with Mandy Reynolds tonight...wouldn't want to stand her up as all my other appointments were missed these last few weeks."

"Oh there was no worry Mr. Solo, an inter-departmental memo was issued advising everyone you would not be available for the month or so."

"Really?"

"Yes, given your proclivity for dating, I thought it advisable," Waverly actually broke a smile. "No need to have so many ladies angry at you for standing them up."

"No sir, not a good idea," Napoleon agreed.

The Old Man snickered, "Yes indeed if that were the case we might have had to put you back in solitary for your own protection, as it were."

 


	60. Why won't you believe me?

"Aw come on!" Napoleon Solo looked up to the open grating above his head, calling out to his captors."When are you going to learn this stuff just doesn't work. I won't talk, it's as simple as that!"

His voice reverberated off the stark wall of the concrete pit where they had lowered him.

"You gotta admit Solo," a voice with a definite Southern drawl called back from above. "Though it may not work, it's still fun for us to torture you U.N.C.L.E. folks."

"Ah but while you're having your fun, a certain Russian has snuck up behind you."

There was a moment of silence, as they no doubt looked, checking to see the American's partner was in fact not there. Napoleon got a chuckle out of it as he knew that's exactly what they were doing.

'Very funny Solo! Ya'll pay for that."

There was a sudden burst of very hot steam emanating from a spigot in the wall of Napoleon's cell, and he ducked, covering his face with his arm and part of his suit jacket, trying to keep from being scalded.

"I just love saunas," Napoleon called out, "They're really good for my complexion and help clean out my pores."

"You Yankees think you're so smart."

"Yes at times we do. Say did my partner sneak up behind you yet?"

"Not gonna work a second time Solo. Now tell us what you did with the microfilm and we won't try to parboil you again."

"What, you're taking away my sauna? Just when it was starting to relax my muscles. So did my partner get there yet?"

"Knock it off...ya'll know you're really becoming a might annoying. Maybe we'll just kill ya and get it over with," the torturer called back.

"Mr. Kuryakin will be quite peeved if you do that," Napoleon countered.

"Enough! The Russkie ain't here to save your sorry UNCLE ass."

.

"Now is that a nice way to speak?" A voice with Russian accent said from behind the Thrushie.

"Aaaaw shoot..."

"That could be very easily arranged,"Illya said, pointing his weapon at the man.

"I tried to warn you," Napoleon said rather nonchalantly.

 


	61. Never Miss An Opportunity

Napoleon Solo was watching the delightful swaying of the hips that belonged to a woman wearing a tight royal blue Chanel dress, walking ahead of him and his partner, along the sidewalk.

A blood curdling scream came out of nowhere, when Napoleon and Illya realized it came from the woman.

There was construction work going on with the building beside them, and the scaffolding that had been erected was suddenly toppling down towards her.

Solo dove to her rescue; his momentum sending both of them out of the way of the metal and planks of wood, while Illya just a few steps back was able dodge the falling debris.

Napoleon landed on top of her and she coughed, trying to catch her breath.

"Oh my God, you saved my life,"she gasped, her green eyes meeting her saviors dreamy hazel ones as she finally began breathing better. "I'm all right, you can get off me now."

He hoisted his upper body up with his arms, taking his weight off of her, but remained on top, returning her gaze.

"But the view his so spectacular from my perspective," he continued to stare at her.

"Do you say that to every woman you're on top of?"She realized how that sounded. "Let me rephrase that..."she said as she watched his smile become a grin.

Napoleon stood, offering a hand up. She took it, never taking her eyes off his.

"And who may I ask is my hero's name?"

"Solo, Napoleon Solo and glad to have been of service." He took her hand, kissing the back of it.

"My goodness, not a just hero but a knight in shining armor," she smiled coyly. "Mr. Solo, how can I repay your gallant actions?"

"Please, call me Napoleon. Perhaps you could have dinner with me, say eight o'clock tonight, the 21 Club?"

It was her turn to grin. "Oh I just adore that restaurant. Yes I'd love to...Napoleon."

He whistled down a taxi for her and as he helped her seat herself, she gave the driver her address.

"I'll pick you up at 7:45," Napoleon smiled one last time.

"A biento, Napoleon."

He closed the taxi door and watched as it sped away.

Illya walked up behind him. "Do not worry about _me_  Napoleon, I am unhurt," he said sarcastically, dusting off his black suit.

"Oh okay, glad you're fine," Napoleon responded absent-mindedly. "Did you see her Illya, she was scrumptious wasn't she? We're having dinner tonight."

"Only you could save a woman from injury and in the same instant, ask her out on a date," he rolled his eyes.

"Hey she asked how she could repay me?" Napoleon said as they continued past the debris, now being picked up by the construction workers. "And I'm not one to ever miss an opportunity."

"You most certainly are not," Illya smirked. "Do you not ever give it a rest."

"Illya, my friend, there'll be time enough to rest when I'm dead."

Kuryakin had no countering remark to that bit of wisdom...

 


	62. A Penny for Your Thoughts

Napoleon stood at the hotel window looking down at the view of Paris, he was dressed only in a pair of dark blue silk pajama bottoms.

A pair of feminine hands slipped around his waist from behind him and he smiled.

"Good morning, sleep well?"

"Good morning to you darling," Angelique purred, "And yes I slept well for... maybe two hours. Napoleon darling, I must say, your staying power is mind-boggling."

He said nothing, and continued to gaze out the window.

"What is it you Americans say...hmm, you have so many of those colloquialisms. Ah, yes I remember now... _penny for your thoughts_?"

He sighed. "Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to lead a normal life?"

"Napoleon, what is normal?"

"You know, a regular job, nights and weekends to yourself." He turned wrapping his arms around her, clasping his hands together behind her back.

Her platinum blonde hair was slightly touseled and she brushed it out of her eyes with her fingers.

"That sounds so dreadfully boring. Who would want that?"

"Sometimes I feel like I do," he whispered to her, planting a soft kiss at the base of her throat.

"Think about it, if you had such a life, you wouldn't have met me. Am I not at least worth it, don't I give you a thrill?"

He paused in his nibbling, thinking that over before he answered her.

"You better say yes Napoleon Solo, or I just might have to kill you."

"Angelique, you are as always...thrilling as ever." He drove his lips onto hers, silencing whatever she might have planned to say, though she let her body give her answer, he supposed.

.

Their rendezvous was finally over and Napoleon saw her downstairs to a waiting taxi; out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar blond head peeking over the top of a copy of 'Le Parisien', while standing on the nearby corner sidewalk.

"Oh real subtle," Solo called to him.

"Subtlety was not my intention," Illya smiled, lowering the newspaper. "I wanted her to see me and know I was covering your back. I will never understand how you can so casually sleep with her Napoleon, as she would surely kill you in an instant if it suited her purposes."

"Your problem _tovarisch_  is that you stick to the rules and don't take chances once in a while. Where's the fun in that? There's a little thrill in taking a risk you know."

"I prefer to err on the side of caution and stay alive. "Illya winked at him."You have your way of doing things and I have mine, but my way usually ends up keeping you from falling off a cliff."

"Hmm, I suppose,"Napoleon thought, "but your way seems to require me to rescue you a lot." He gave a loud whistle, summoning a another cab.

At first the Russian gave no reply to his partner's statement, and looked rather contemplative as the two of them climbed into the back seat of the taxi.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Napoleon repeated the phrase put to him by Angelique.

Illya shook his blond mop. "You are the more adventurous one and ever the optimist. You take risks because you simply shrug off the consequences, believing everything will always be fine. Being your partner, I find it necessary to get you out of these precarious situations you put yourself into, which inturn gets me into trouble."

Napoleon blushed. Illya was right, if he didn't take risks, that would keep his partner from, well...jumping in front of him to take a bullet perhaps? He thought back momentarily to the statement he made to the beautiful Thrush agent, about wishing for a 'normal' life sometimes, and realized that wasn't really true. He needed that risk, the thrill. It was what made him feel alive at times.

"You're right, but as much as I'd like to say I'll mend my ways, you know I won't," the American smiled. "I am what I am."

A smirk appeared on the Russian's face, "And that is exactly why I was waiting on the corner today my friend."

 


	63. A Sad Day

The telephone rang on Napoleon's desk and he casually picked up the receiver.

"Solo here."

"Mr. Solo," this is Jeanette in communications, I have an outside call from a woman who says she's your mother. Do you want me to transfer it?"

He was momentarily surprised as his mother rarely called him at headquarters and she usually used his private number that by-passed communications. Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"Yes Jeanette go ahead." There were a few clicks after which Napoleon spoke.

"Hi mom, everything okay?" He answered warily.

"No son it's not. It's your father..."

His voice rose slightly in pitch."What's wrong?"

"Oh, Napoleon, your father is dead," she sobbed.

For a moment he could say nothing, and his voice caught in his throat when he finally spoke.

"What happened mom?"

"Another heart attack. They weren't able to revive him this time. He complained of chest pains around one o'clock and I called for an ambulance right away. Dad...he, never made it to the hospital in time," she began to sob in earnest now. "Oh my God, Napoleon, what am I going to do without him?"

"Mom, I know it's not easy but you need to calm down. Where are you?"

"Long Island Hospital."

"I'm on my way," he said hastily.

"No son, I'm going home now. One of the police officers is driving me. Come home Napoleon please."

"Okay mom, I'll be there."

"I'll see you when you get there.." she sniffled.

"Mom?"

"Yes dear?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He heard the receiver click as she hung it up and he returned it back to it's cradle.

Napoleon sat there for a moment, just staring and then when he buried his face in his hands, he let out a sob.

At that moment the door opened and Illya walked in to the office.

He knew instantly his partner had been crying. Napoleon never wept...

"What is wrong?"

He looked up at the Russian, hastily wiping away the tears with the heels of his hands, and sniffled.

"It's my dad, Illya. He's dead."

Illya was to his friends side in just two strides, and clasped a hand to Napoleon's shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze.

"I am so sorry for your loss." As soon as Illya said that, he thought it so trite. "There really are no good words that I can offer at a time like this, other to tell you how saddened I am for you and your family."

"Thanks buddy. I appreciate it." Napoleon stood up, and on impulse he and the Russian grabbed each other in a quick bear hug; Illya slapping him on the back as a show of support.

They separated and looked into each other's eyes, both understanding the grief at the loss of a father.

Though Napoleon's relationship with Darius Solo was strained at times, they had tried to make their peace when Darius had his heart attack a year ago. Things had gotten better between father and son after many years of bickering, and at the moment Napoleon was ever so grateful for that.

"How is your mother?"

"She's pretty broken up, in spite of their rough patches...she loved him. They were married a long time."

"If there is anything I can do for you and your family, please name it." Illya said, somberly.

Napoleon broke into the slightest of smiles. "You know that's so kind of you, considering the way my father treated you. He could be a real bastard at times, but deep down he was a good man, an honorable man, but most of all he was my father. Tell you what tovarisch, when it comes time for the funeral, would you mind being a pallbearer?

Illya hesitated for a second. "Given how he disliked me, would that not be a bit disrespectful?"

"It's not for him pal, it's for me. You're like a brother to me, you're family and I'm sure my mother, Hannibal and my sisters would approve."

"Then it would be my honor." Illya bowed his head diplomatically.

"Thank you."

.

 

*authors note: this was prompted by the recent passing of a dear friend.

 


	64. Smart Russian

People walking along the main corridor in the New York headquarters of UNCLE saw a very animated conversation going on between two familiar men.

Illya Kuryakin's hands were flying as he spoke in short, pointed sentences directed at his partner.

"Napoleon, I tell you I am not sure."

"Come on now, of course you'd assume the title of CEA when I retire even if I decide against...

"I knew it, you do not want the responsibility of being CCO for UNCLE Northwest!"

Illya's pointed right at Solo, like he was having an epiphany.

"Well those are mighty big shoes to fill," Napoleon stuck his hands in his pants pockets, often when he was pondering something.

"Oh and your shoes are not equally as large for me to fill, both literally and figuratively," Kuryakin answered, straight-faced.

"Well if I do take over for Waverly when the time comes, I'll need you there to watch my back."

"Napoleon, you will be behind a desk, or rather a large conference table, so I doubt you will need me in that regard."

"I can't believe you're saying this _tovarisch_?"

"Sorry, but do I not have the right to doubts as do you?"

"No."

"Very funny. Just as you are hesitant at accepting such responsibilities, so am I."

Napoleon stopped, staring at the Russian for a second.

"Yes I guess you're right. Well why are we arguing about this anyway. I'm not retiring for six years, and if the Old Man is still going strong, I'll be stuck in a different kind of desk job until he's good and ready to hand over the reins, if he doesn't just pass away while holding them."

"I supposed it does not hurt to lay one's cards on the table ahead of time to make sure things are as they should be. What do you call it, putting ones geese in a row?" Illya grinned.

Napoleon shook his head, wondering if Illya said these things just to annoy him. "That's ducks. Putting your ducks in a row."

'Oh yes, that makes sense now, since ducklings tend to follow their mother in a neat little row, do they not?"

Napoleon took his turn at rolling his eyes, amazed at the possible feigned innocence of his partners answers.

"Now enough talking, I am hungry," Illya segued to another topic, one near and dear to his heart and stomach. "So as possible future CCO, and I mean way into the future, you will buy me lunch since I will be your possible second in command. It would be in thanks for all the hard work I would be doing watching your back?"

"How our conversations always seem to come back to the topic of food and me buying it for you, I'll never understand." Solo looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Remember... _smart_  Russian." Illya grinned. "You have said so yourself, many times."

"Yes I have, haven't I?" Napoleon smirked.

 


	65. I'm a girl watcher

It was a perfect Spring day as Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin sat at a small sidewalk bistro sipping their cups of latte, and snacking on pastries, fruit and cheeses.

"You know chum it's nice to see the warmer weather here at last. Ninety-eight point six degrees is just right in my estimation," Napoleon smiled.

"Speak for yourself. I prefer it a little cooler," the Russian wiped his brow with a paper napkin. "Wait, it is not that hot."

"I'm not talking about the temperature, I'm talking about the view," the American smiled as a girl sauntered past them, wearing a very short black white and red shirt dress that was well above the knee. A pair red patent leather boots completed her mod ensemble as her hips swayed, making for a hypnotic rhythm much to Solo's fascination.

"For the hundredth time, can you not give it a rest?"

"And why should I...it's my hobby. You have your ridiculous scientific journals and I like girl-watching."

"No you like girl-catching my friend," Illya finally lifted his nose up from the magazine he was reading.

"Seriously  _tovarisch_ , you don't know what you're missing."

Illya shook his blond head. "Trust me I do. I have learned that women in general are trouble. One can be friendly with them, but nothing more than that. And as far as intimacy is concerned, it happens when I am good and ready and not before. Again I prefer to know a woman a bit before going to bed with her."

"Now how did you get all that out of me just suggesting you do a little girl watching?" Napoleon plucked a grape from the bowl of fruit on their table.

"That is because I refuse to objectify women as you do. Now may we just finish our lunch and get out of here?"

"You mean to tell me a pretty girl can't turn your head, and don't say no, because I've seen it happen."

"Yes, I do look from time to time, though I choose not to act upon it, unlike you. Now can we please go?

"What's the rush? Can't a fellow enjoy the day?"

"No, I want to go pick up the latest copy of Scientific American." Illya swallowed the last of his latte, and actually threw some money on the table for the bill.

Napoleon, though momentarily shocked, laughed at his partner as he shook his head.

"We gotta get you out more often partner mine. All work and no play makes Illya a dull boy."

Though Kuryakin had applied the Russian version of that saying in reference to himself before, he simply rolled his eyes at his partner's usage of it.

"I will decide what is dull and what is not thank you."

His words drifted on the air, as Napoleon had left the table and was in hot pursuit down the street, closing in on the girl in the mini dress.

"Napoleon, you will never fit into the classification of 'dull' my friend," Illya mumbled to himself.

 


	66. I can get you every time

Nurse Henderson sighed when she walked into her patient's room in the UNCLE Medical wing, only to find the bed empty. She knocked on the bathroom door and receiving no response, after which she opened it to find it unoccupied.

She walked calmly, but with purpose as she headed back to her duty station, picking up the telephone receiver as soon as she stepped behind the desk.

Her co-worker was seated beside her, doing her daily reports.

"What's wrong" Nurse Patterson asked, knowing that look in her Henderson's eyes.

"Did it again..."

"You're kidding?"

"Hello, Security. This is Nurse Henderson in Medical...he did it again."

The voice at the other end assured her they'd find him.

"Yes, thank you."

Twenty minutes later two members of Section V stepped off the elevator, towering over the slight blond who stood between them as they escorted him back to his room.

"Well hello there Mr. Kuryakin, decide to make another escape attempt," Nurse Henderson smiled at him.

The Russian limped past her, balancing on the hard cast on his left leg, and a scowl on his face.

"How did you expect to get out of here wrapped in nothing but a hospital gown and sheet?" She tried not to laugh at him. "You do know we confiscated the clothing you keep in your locker, as well as the travel case in your office."

Illya flashed her a his best icy blue-eyed stare, one that had chilled enemy agents to the bone, but it failed to work on this one.

No, Nurse Henderson had the Russian's number all right.

"Illya, if you behave yourself and don't try to leave again, I'll bring you chocolate ice cream?" She called to him in a sing-song voice as he was seen back into his room.

He stuck his head out the door, "Two scoops...please?" Illya ducked back in before she could answer.

Of course she'd fulfill his request, after all he said, 'please.' Henderson snapped her fingers, grinning at yet another triumph over the famed Illya Kuryakin...

Napoleon on the other hand was a different story. She drew a tube of cherry-red lipstick from her pocket, reapplying it with a quick pucker and undid the top two buttons of her white uniform, letting the 'girls,' as she called them, get a little exposure before she stepped down the hall to the senior agent's room. 

 


	67. Gotcha!

"No, I absolutely refuse to get involved with another of your dating schemes," Illya crossed his arms in front of him, looking very much like a petulant child.

"Be reasonable. I really need an escort for my date's friend. Please?" Napoleon Solo fluttered his eyes, putting on his most pleading expression. He watched as his partner took a deep breath, holding it for what seemed like an eternity. That was a good sign as it meant the Russian was at least thinking it over.

"Napoleon the last girl you fixed me up with was an absolute airhead, not to mention her eyes crossed as she flirted with me."

"Come on be a pal? Tell you what, I'll flit the bill for everything...food, drinks, you name it."

"Fine, and what happens after you and your date retreat to her place for a night of shenanigans, as I know that is what will happen."

"Take her dancing, then see her home and wish her a good night. Is that so hard? Hey you never know, she might be a real looker and maybe you'll get lucky too."

"I suppose not, but this 'getting lucky' is not my style, you know that."

"Yeah, yeah. I know you like to know a woman before you take her to bed."

"Precisely," the Russian nodded with a shy smile.

Napoleon gave it his last shot, staring at his friend with his best puppy-dog eyes.

Illya shook his head, hating himself at the moment. "All right."

Napoleon's face lit up. "Thank you my friend, you won't regret it. I'll pick you up at seven." He turned with a skip and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Illya standing in a state of dismay.

"How is it I cannot say no to him, though every time I regret doing this?" He reached around with his hand, slapping himself on the back of the head.

At the designated time Kuryakin stood on the sidewalk outside his apartment building, waiting for his partner and watched as the silver convertible pulled up to a stop.

"Ready tovarisch?" Napoleon said as Illya hopped into the passenger seat instead of opening the door. "Feeling a bit frisky?"

"No, just vodka.'

"Do-not-tell me you're drunk," Napoleon shoved the gear shift into park, turning and staring at his partner.

Illya actually grinned. "No self-respecting Russian would get drunk on vodka...buzzed, maybe but not drunk.

"Coward. We're stopping to get you some coffee."

"Napoleon I am fine, and there is nothing wrong with preparing oneself for a harrowing evening with a few drinks. Now please just drive into the valley of death, if you please. I would like to get this over."

Solo scowled, putting the car into gear, and carefully pulling out into traffic. The drive was short, and Solo pulled up in front of the 'The Russian Tea Room,' parking the car curbside.

Illya's eyes went wide with approval. "Surprising choice, what gives?" He asked, getting out of the car, now completely suspicious of his partner.

"I thought since you were doing me a favor, I'd do one for you. You'll be more comfortable here won't you?"

Illya blushed, feeling guilty he supposed now for giving Napoleon a hard time. This gesture on his part was a thoughtful one.

"Yes Napoleon, and thank your consideration."

Solo held the door, allowing Illya to enter first, but once inside led him to one of the side rooms. The hunter green walls and the ornate trim gilt in gold was something Solo couldn't equate with the current Soviet way of life, and this was but a small glimpse into the elegance that once existed in Russian.

The wall sconces were dimmed and there was dead silence; for a second Illya hesitated, feeling something was wrong.

As soon as he stepped inside, the lights came up, and there was a collective shout of 'Surprise!"

Napoleon, obviously anticipating this had grabbed his partner's arm, preventing him from going for his weapon.

Illya's look of confusion was erased when April stepped forward.

"Happy Anniversary goose!" She gave him quick kiss on the cheek. "Illya don't tell me you've forgotten the anniversary of your joining U.N.C.L.E."

"Actually I did, as such things are not of real importance to me...no offence to your remembering though." Illya returned her kiss, giving her a little peck on the cheek, and shaking hands with Mark Slate and the other people there to celebrate.

Illya finally turned to his partner. "You are getting quite good at acting out your roles my friend."

"Gotcha," Napoleon tapped the side of his nose as he smiled.

"Happy Anniversary buddy."

"Spacibo,"Illya nodded as he was handed a glass of vodka and a plateful of  _zakuski._..eyeing the caviar with relish.

"To happy anniversaries with friends," he raised his glass." May we have many more together." He was feeling a bit overwhelmed at this attention, as most of his life he'd been alone, with little to no friends or companions who cared for him as these people did.

"Hear hear," Alexander Waverly's voice spoke from behind the Russian.

"Sorry I'm a tad late, pressing business as usual. I'm afraid this little  _soiree_  may have to be cut short as we have a situation brewing in the Philippines." He stared at the disappointed looks on his agent's faces, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Gotcha...wot wot, " Waverly chuckled.

 


	68. Sticks and Stones

Hey that move wasn't legal Kuryakin!" His opponent called out, wiping the blood from his mouth.

Illya was dancing around the man who stood at least a good ten inches taller than him.

"All is fair in love and war," Illya shot back, followed by a roundhouse kick to the agents solar plexus, doubling him over with an 'ooof' as fell to the floor.

The Russian offered him a hand up, but in return when his guard was down for that split second of gentlemanly behavior, his opponent swept his legs out from under him, sending him flying backwards to the mat.

"So how do you like that, you pinko piece of crap Russkie? We Americans can fight dirty too."

That was the last word out of the man's mouth, as Illya managed to flip himself to his feet and dove for Beaufort as he was just standing up.

Fists flew, and it turned into an all out brawl in the gymnasium and the time Security arrived Kuryakin was on top of the man, raising his first for a final blow that would signal his victory.

"That's enough Mr. Kuryakin!" The Section V agent called out to him.

Illya froze in place, looking up and seeing his partner running through the gym door towards him.

"It's okay boys, I'll handle it from here," Solo announced.

"But Mr. Solo..."

"No buts, I'm CEA and Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Beaufort are under my command. As I said, I'll take it from here."

"Yes sir, but we still have to report the incident to Mr. Waverly."

"Give me about an hour before you do that?"

"All right Mr. Solo, whatever you say." The Security detail backed off and left the gym.

At that point Illya and George Beaufort stood, bloodied and bruised in front of their Section Chief.

"Okay, who started it?"

Two sets of fingers pointed at each other simultaneously.

Napoleon ran his hand through his neatly coiffed hair, shaking his head and for once rolled his eyes.

"George, hit the showers and I'll talk to you in my office in a half hour.

The man stalked off to the locker room without a word.

"So tovarisch what happened?"

"Our sparring match became a bit more animated when he called me a derogatory name and I lost my temper. I apologize Napoleon, I should not have let the man goad me." Illya picked up a towel from a nearby bench, wiping some of the blood from his face.

"I suppose the old adage 'sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me' doesn't mean much to you, does it?"

"I have never heard it put quite that way, though there is a Russian version with a similar sentiment," Illya cocked his head as he checked to make sure his nose wasn't broken. "I will take that to heart in the future."

'Good idea."

 

Alexander Waverly was annoyed by the incident, so much so that he decided to let Solo as CEA handle it and dispense the appropriate punishment as he knew he was not in a very forgiving mood at the moment and might regret his actions. Napoleon wasn't happy about it, feeling he was now being tested, since his partner was involved.

Beaufort was written up, and transferred to an outpost in the mid-west, manned by a contingent of agents mostly of Slavic descent. He was warned that such another bigoted remark could cost him his position with the Command.

Illya was another story, though defending his honor, brawling was not acceptable in headquarters. Napoleon was at a loss as to what to do. He asked himself what the one thing was that Illya hated to do?

The next day Illya Kuryakin was assigned desk duty in the records department, section Z. Very few people had need of the few files under that alphabetical heading, so the next week there would be a boring one to say the least.

The room was deathly silent except for the sound of an air vent, though Illya could read of course, and nap to his hearts content. There would be no one to bother him, so the punishment really wasn't as bad as it looked.

Waverly found it quite amusing..."Couldn't have done as well if I'd ordered it myself Mr. Solo. Though, in the foul mood that I was in, Mr. Kuryakin might not have fared so well," the Old Man harumphed, as he lit his pipe, taking a long drag on it.

Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief, remembering the Old Man's fondness for Kuryakin being his pet project.

"And what might you have done sir?"

"Sent him on courier duty to any field office near the tropical equator where it was extremely hot and humid."

"Eww, cruel sir, very cruel," Napoleon smiled.

"Indeed."


	69. Kind of a drag

"Owww, these are really pinching my feet!"

"Stop complaining, the are the closest I could find to your shoe size," April smiled, "I must say, they're definitely your color.

"I agree," Illya tried not to smile. "And the longer skirt does hide a multitude of sins."

"Yes I know hairy legs, and knocked knees," Mark Slate growled. "All I want to know is why I have to dress up in drag, when we have a very competent female agent in our midst."

"Darling, you know the part called for a stockier woman, and I'm barely over a hundred pounds."

"Then why couldn't Illya do it, he's more girly looking than I am."

"Beg pardon," the Russian's eyes opened wide at that declaration.

"No offense mate, you're built more slender than me, but in a manly way, and with your longer hair, well... besides didn't you already impersonate a nun last year?"

"I am not sure, but I think I am offended, and a nun in a full length habit and headpiece is a far cry from masquerading as a woman, with a false cleavage." Illya pointed to the fake chest-piece peaking out through the unbuttoned top of Mark's blouse. "Should you not button up a bit...you are supposed to be a little more matronly, are you not?"

"Hey mate, doesn't mean she has to be downright dowdy?"

Napoleon walked into the hotel room just as April put the finishing touches on her partner's make up.

He gave a cat call and rolled his eyes."Stunning, simply stunning," but he grinned widely as he said it.

"Knock it off," Mark grumbled. "And why couldn't you have dressed up, and me be the gent?"

"Sorry, a Solo doesn't do drag," Napoleon, nattily dressed in a sports coat, and an ascot around his throat, looked all the part of the rich socialite he was portraying.

"Well there was the time in Sicily when you put on a wig and shawl over your head, and cried out 'andiamo' is a slightly older but feminine voice..." Illya smirked.

"That doesn't count," Napoleon turned his head with an air of dignity toward Mark.

He offered his arm to the Brit, who was still doddering in his red heels. Slate smoothed out his floral skirt, and puffy white blouse, and lastly checked his grey wig.

"Come on dear Bertie, times a wasting and there's a party we must attend," Napoleon said.

Mark took his arm, hoping that would help with his uneven gait, then again walking unsteadily would only add to the persona of the older woman he was pretending to be, Alberta Mountbatten-Windsor, a distant relation to the Queen of England.

He paused for a second, getting into his role."Napoleon dearest are my lips on straight?"

That sent them all into a fit of laughter, easing the tension for the start of this charade.

 


	70. Daisy Daisy...

"You have got to be kidding me? This is the best you could manage," Napoleon was incredulous at his partner's appropriation.

"Do I look like I am joking?" The Russian asked with his usual deadpan face.

"All right, seriously then?" Solo stopped to brush some dirt from his trousers, and sighed at the grass stains. "These will never come out."

"Napoleon, what does it matter...jokingly or seriously; it is transportation, is it not?"

"Illya, it's a bicycle built for two!"

"Well the sooner we both get on it, the faster we can get after them."

Napoleon cringed. "Oh I can see their faces now, laughing their heads off a the big bad UNCLE agents chasing them by bicycle."

Illya scowled, as he slipped onto the front seat.

"The longer we wait, the farther we will be from seeing those faces. What do I care if they are laughing. They will not do so when we catch them."

"Yeah, right...tsk. Like we're really going to catch them on this? You couldn't have hot-wired a car?" Napoleon clicked his tongue as he reluctantly sat on the rear seat as it had been a very long time since he'd ridden a bicycle.,

Again, Illya scowled, perhaps even more this time.

"Do you really think I would have chosen this mode of transportation if a car had been available?"

Ignoring his partner; it was Napoleon's turn to make a face.

"Why do I have to ride in the back?"

"Because if you steer Miss Daisy, you will get us lost..."

"Daisy? What are you on about?"

"How can you forget the words to your own American song?" Illya began to sing it, trying to keep a straight face as they started peddling away, gaining momentum.

"Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage, but you'll look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle made for two."

"Hey!" Illya barked as he felt a slap on the back of his head...

 


	71. That's Life

Napoleon lay on a stainless steel table, his arms stretched and tied above his head.

It was getting harder to breathe as the air was being sucked out of the chamber little by little. He looked upwards to the glass ceiling panel seeing the man who'd captured him. Dr. Lothario Rex, was laughing away.

What Napoleon couldn't see was Illya,  handcuffed to a chair just out of view next to the doctor.

"All right my dear friend it's up to you," Rex ceased his laughing as if a switch had been turned off. "Either you tell me what I want to know, or your friend Mr. Solo slowly suffocates to death.

"Trust me when I say, he is not my friend nor are you," Illya answered blandly.

"Come come Mr. Kuryakin, we at THRUSH all know of your close relationship with Mr. Solo, perhaps one too close?"

"Oh please do not start that nonsense...we are not lovers if that is what you are hinting," Illya deliberately allowed his emotions to color that comment.

"Really, that's not what our agent  _Tamis Voudrais_  said." *

"Good God man, that babbling idiot? I would think your Central would take what she says with a grain, no, several grains of salt. She is about as intelligent as a slug."

"Don't hold anything back will you Mr. Kuryakin," Rex laughed, "Your candor is a breath of fresh air."

"Speaking of air, would it not be wiser to prolong the life of Napoleon Solo? Would he not be more valuable alive to Thrush Central?"

"You are most amusing," Rex continued to laugh. "You realize if I let him live, then I, sadly, must get the information from you in a more uncomfortable fashion.

"Do what you must."

"Such loyalty, but it will be for naught Mr. Kuryakin." The doctor turned the control valve, sending more oxygen into the sealed room where Solo was barely conscious.

With a quick turn, Rex slammed his fist into the Russian's jaw, sending his head turning violently to one side.

Illya spat blood yet was able to flashed a feral smile at the man. "If that is the best you can do, then you are in for a big disappointment. I would suggest you..."

At that moment there was a loud crash, as Napoleon had somehow managed to free himself, climb up to the viewing window, and smashed through it; launching himself on top of Dr. Rex.

One quick karate chop to the man's neck knocked him out.

"You okay  _tovarisch?_ "

"I am now," Illya answered calmly.

.

* ref to: "That's Life" (posted on Fanfiction.net)

 


	72. Here we go again

"Well here we go again," Napoleon sighed as a double barrel shotgun was shoved into his back.

"What do you mean  _we?_ ' Illya asked, clasping his hands together on top of his head.

If looks could kill, Solo's would have disintegrated the Russian like a laser beam.

"I am so sick and tired of getting drawn into shotgun weddings in these podunk towns."

"Hey Mister, what d'ya mean callin' this here place a podunk town?" The man with the shotgun jabbed the barrelsl hard into Solo's ribs.

"Oh ummm, no insult as where I come from _podunk_  means a small, homey place" Napoleon lied.

"Yeah right Mister, and I bet yer gonna to try to sell me that there Brooklyn bridge. I been to New York and I know what you city slickers think of us country folk."

This time it was Illya's turn to glare at his partner.  _"Luchshe zakryt' rot , prezhde chem popast' nam v nepriyatnost'_it is better to shut your mouth before you get us in more trouble."_

_"Chto ty imeyesh' v vidu nas_what do you mean 'us?"_ Napoleon repeated in Russian.

"I dunno what you two are yammering about, but you better stop it...say it sounds like ya'll are talkin' Russkie." Their captor eyed them suspiciously. "You spies or somethin'?"

Solo's eyebrows arched. "That is quite astute of you, as that's exactly what we are, but we're not Russian spies."

"Yes,"Illya took the cue," We are here in search of people who are enemies of the United States Government, those who are anti-American."

The man drew back the shotgun, reaching up under his baseball cap and scratching his balding head.

"Gosh, that's gonna be a problem seeing's how you gotta git married to my Emmie Lou. I cain't have her hubby runnin' round gettin' shot at. You understand?"

"Ah but sir, you're putting Emmie Lou before God and Country. I would have thought you more of a patriot than that." Napoleon egged him on. "I saw that flag flying proudly on your flagpole in front of your farm and I said to myself..." _Self,_  now there's a real American."

Illya watched with amusement as Napoleon worked his magic.

"Sir...I'm sorry, what's your name?" Solo asked.

"Emmett."

"Emmett, I give you my word of my honor as a gentleman and a patriot that I never laid hands on your daughter and she is still as chaste as she was before we met," he tried not to choke on those words as Emmie Lou and the word chaste hadn't been acquainted in a very long time.

"Scout's honor." Napoleon held up his hand giving the three fingered Boy Scout's salute, though he had never been a Scout.

"Mister, what's yer name?"

"Umm, Davis...Jeff Finis Davis."

"As in Jefferson Davis? You pullin' my leg Mister, ain't never heard no Yank called that." Emmett raised his gun again, aiming it at Napoleon.

"Well Emmett, my grandparents were from Kentucky and moved to Mississippi, from there they went to New York where Grandaddy found himself a good job, and though the family stayed there, they never forgot the South."

"So are you kin to 'the' Jefferson Davis?"

"I'd been told that by my Daddy, God rest his soul." Napoleon smiled.

"Well shoot then, you cain't marry my Emmie, as you and she be kinfolk. We're cousins to the great Jefferson Davis himself. And though you Yankees think we get hitched to kin...well, we don't do that round these here parts."

"No, not good for the gene pool I imagine," Illya added.

"No siree, we don't want no children with bad blood and birth problems," Emmett lowered the gun for a second time with a complete change of heart.

"Well, best ya'll be gettin' on. Ya'll have mighty important work to do and I'll explain the complication to the daughter. She'll understand, though she was mighty sweet on you cousin Jefferson."

The agents never heard Emmett's last words as they were already out the door.

He walked outside, seeing a cloud of dust flying into the air because the tires on their fancy car were spinning on the simple dirt road as they took off, heading along it at top speed.

"Ya'll come back now, ye hear!" Emmett called out after them. "We be kinfolk now."

 


	73. Sigh...

He was asleep on his sofa, taking a well earned nap as he'd returned from an assignment that resulted in a fair few contusions and abrasions...nothing serious but enough for medical to send him home for some down time.

A distant rumble of thunder disturbed his light slumber and he opened his eyes, focusing for a moment on footsteps out in the hallway, listening until they faded.

A moment later there was a loud thunderclap and the lady asleep next to him raised her head in concern.

"Do not worry, you are safe with me,"Illya whispered, giving her little head a scratch. His black kitten Nina stared at him with her wide green eyes.

Stretching with her front legs, she opened her mouth in a small yawn, and rested one of her paws to his face, just for a moment her eyes met his.

Nina curled up, snuggling closer to her blond human as if she understood his reassurance of safety.

Illya closed his eyes, pulling up the throw blanket around him, and feeling very content at this little bit of unconditional love cuddling up next to him.

He at last fell into a deep sleep, dreaming that he was floating as if he were laying on an invisible bed, covered only with a diaphanous sheet, so soft and fine that it was barely hiding his nakedness.

It was a wonderful feeling of lightness, cocooning him in a sense of total serenity.

"Boom!"

Another very loud thunderclap, this one very close, shocked him awake; his heart pounding at being startled from his lovely dream.

"Prrrrt," Nina stuck her face next to his and gave him a little lick on the nose.

"Thank you, now it was your turn to comfort me..." He pulled her close, nuzzling her with a sigh.

Illya Kuryakin, master spy and trained killer laughed to himself.


	74. Just another day.

"Marriage is like a stink in' deck of cards," the drunk sitting at the bar slurred his words." In the beginning all you need for a great hand is two hearts, then," he hiccuped," all you wish for is a club and a spade."

The blond sitting at the bar next to him tried ignoring the sage advice the man insisting upon giving him, though it was unsolicited.

Illya had it at that point, as he'd been waiting for his contact for an unwarranted amount of time. Nursing his drink; obviously his informant was not showing, and the evening was turning into a waste of his time.

He endured the rantings of the fellow next to him as he sank farther into an advanced state of inebriation. The Russian finally swallowed the last of his drink and turned to the man, unable to tolerate him any longer.

"Look, if that is your attitude towards marriage, then you are obviously with the wrong woman and she with you. I suggest you get a divorce, end your misery and move on."

"Hey buddy," the drunkard slurred," you insulting my wife?" He leaned into Illya's face; the stench of the man's breath reeking of booze and unbrushed teeth.

"My friend perhaps you should go home and sleep it off." The Russian nudged the besotted soul away with simple a push of a finger, deciding it was actually time for himself to leave as well.

A couple of swings were taken at the UNCLE agent, though he didn't move a muscle as the man's fist missed him by the proverbial mile each time. With another nudge of his finger, Illya pushed the unsteady fellow backwards and he landed face down on the floor of the bar, unable to rise.

Kuryakin stepped over the prone figure, heading out the door, not turning back, and hailed a taxi to take him home. There was no need to go to headquarters, his report, though pointless, could wait until morning.

His uneventful night was a complete bust, and the bar didn't even carry a decent brand of vodka either.

 


	75. The Challenge

Nurse Kelly raised the medical bed, and propped an extra pillow behind the Russian's back, allowing him to sit up in order to eat.

Both his hands were covered in gauze bandages, requiring him to be fed. At first he was uncomfortable at the prospect, insisting he would take care of himself, but he ended up wearing more of his soup than had ended up in his mouth. Since he was quite hungry, he relented.

The next morning at breakfast time, the nurse had come up with something that she was sure to soothe the savage Russian. She sat a bowl on the bed table, allowing him to eye it with suspicion.

"That looks like gruel...you have got to be kidding," he crossed his arms in front of his chest in protest. The frown and protruding lower lip added to his pre-temper tantrum visage.

"It's not gruel, it's just oatmeal."

"That is exactly what gruel is my dear."

"Well yes, but it's thick and hearty and not watery like gruel."

"Please, may I have bacon and eggs instead?"

"No, the dietician says oatmeal. Look Illya, please don't give me a hard time. I promise you'll like it."

"Hardly," he huffed.

She lifted a spoonful, offering it to him. "I know you're hungry. Come on?"

Illya opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him, but as soon as he tasted it, his face lit up.

"This is delicious, what is in it...you were correct, it is not just plain oatmeal," he actually smiled.

Nurse Kelly knew she'd won this challenge. "It has a sprinkle of cinnamon and finely diced apples in it and just a little brown sugar."

"Really?" Illya nodded, opening his mouth now willingly for another spoonful. He finished his breakfast, and asked contritely for another portion.

"I'm sure I can get the kitchen to oblige."

"Thank you Nurse Kelly...hmmm, and what is for lunch?" He flashed a blue-eyed puppy dog look at her.

"I had a feeling you'd be asking that," she flashed him a look of satisfaction. "How would a nice bowl of borscht sound along with some pirozhki ?"

"With sour cream?" Now he was grinning.

Ir wasn't exactly on the menu but Kelly had worked it out.

Illya relaxed, thinking his room was looking less grey to him today, as his mood had improved. Good food had that effect on him.

"I'll make sure. One of our dieticians is from Poland and will personally be making your meal." Nurse Kelly left the room, pausing just outside the door to snap her fingers in satisfaction. "Got you Kuryakin."

She undid the top button to her white uniform, spreading it open to reveal just a bit of cleavage. "Okay Solo, you're next," she grinned as she stepped through to the room next door.

"Hmmm," Napoleon smiled charmingly, as he got an eyeful of Nurse Kelly when she bent over to get his chart at the foot of his bed. Nurse Henderson had clued her in on this little trick. Amazing how two of UNCLE's top agents could be lured in by a little TLC that included food and a little voyeurism.

Kelly snickered at that thought as she bent over Solo's face, wiping his warm brow with a cool cloth.

"Helloooo nurse..." Napoleon whispered out of the side of his mouth.

 


	76. Oh what a night!

Illya woke up with a stretch, laying on his lumpy green sofa, though over the years the lumps had finally conformed to the shape of his body.

Little Nina, his black kitten, remained at her spot right next to his head, as he had fallen asleep while reading. He must have been comfortable enough to spend the night on his couch, rather than getting up and going to bed. That was unusual for him, but perhaps it was the purring of the kitten that made him fall into a deep enough sleep.

Thankfully there had been no nightmares last night, and therefore no headache to which he usually woke.

He reached out, running his hand along Nina's sleek soft fur and as soon as he did so, she started purring loudly.

"Good morning my little girl, are you hungry?"

The sudden gurgle of his own stomach told him he'd slept through breakfast time, also unusual for him.

There would be no visit from Napoleon this Sunday morning with bagels and pastries, as he was laid up in medical with a broken leg and arm.

Kuryakin had spent his requisite time visiting with his partner, and left him to his own devices. Being surrounded by the nursing staff who was more than willing to keep him content; Napoleon was a happy man in spite of being confined to a medical bed.

No Sunday nibbles courtesy of Solo... today, Illya was on his own to feed himself at the moment. Eventually he'd head out to the baker's for the bagels and pastries, bringing them to his partner. Why break with tradition?

He hopped up from the sofa with Nina following after him to the kitchen.

Opening a can of cat food, chicken; he thought, glancing at the label without his reading glasses. The contents were spooned out onto a small dish, and placed on the floor as Nina decided to attack his ankle with her needle-sharp claws.

"Ow! Is that a nice way to treat the hand that is about to feed you?"

"Prrrrt."

"I thought as much, eat well my little demon child."

Illya rummaged through the refrigerator, finding nothing that was palatable and tossed, with a sigh, some take-away containers of a dubious nature. Nothing to eat...

He was already dressed in a tee shirt and sweatpants, and opted to just to go to a nearby mom and pop store-front restaurant that served breakfast, and from there he could hit the bakery. Illya quickly ran his fingers through his hair, though not really caring that it was a bit messy and headed out the door after resetting his alarm.

When he arrived at his destination, the waitress looked at him as he sat in his usual booth.

"Rough night?"

He blushed, knowing she was accustomed to seeing him clean-shaven and dressed in a suit.

"Not rough at all, though I did spend a lovely evening with a lady named Nina,' he smiled innocently.

The waitress sighed, wishing the good-looking blond would spend an evening with her sometime.

She poured him a cup of coffee and took his order, wondering who this lucky Nina chick was...

 


	77. Stepping up to the plate

There was an underlying tension as the Section II agents gathered in their conference room for their weekly briefing. Normally it was conducted by the CEA, but Napoleon Solo was lying in a bed up in medical, in serious but guarded condition with a bullet having been removed from his back.

Illya Kuryakin though reluctant to leave his partner's side, was forced to do so as he was, after all, the second in command and it was his duty to take over for Napoleon as temporary Chief Enforcement Agent.

As soon as he entered the conference room, there was instant silence, the conversations coming to an obvious stop.

"Do not let me disturb you gentleman, please speak freely." He looked at his watch, noting it was a few minutes early and several agents who were in-house, were still not present.

"How's Napoleon doing?" Mark Slate asked, breaking the ice.

"He is still unconscious. The surgery was successful but the surgeons are unsure as to whether he will be able to walk again... that remains to be seen," Kuryakin spoke with a coldness in his voice, though he was feeling quite emotional about the thought of his partner being permanently disabled.

The missing agents arrived ten minutes late, and Illya chastised them, reminding them to be on time in the future. He sensed ill-ease in the room was not due to Napoleon's medical condition, and suspected there was still an underlying resentment towards him on the part of some of the others. Even though he'd been with UNCLE over a year, he was still looked upon as suspect, a Communist and not to be trusted.

Illya had heard the whisperings behind his back, even though they thought he didn't...

He let those things ride, and avoided addressing them. Napoleon wasn't so forgiving and went after anyone who'd treated his partner unfairly, but at the moment this Soviet was on his own to deal with such things or not.

There had been a few incidents when he'd gotten into a brawl with the offending agents, but again, Solo came to his rescue.

He reminded Napoleon that he didn't need to do such things. Illya felt he could handle things himself, if need be, but now with the chance his partner could be gone, he suddenly missed the American having his back.

If Napoleon was indeed rendered an invalid, Illya Kuryakin questioned if he would be able to permanently step into the CEA shoes, knowing the general feelings towards him; he wasn't sure if he wanted make that move. He had a curt way about him, and could be rather ruthless at times; that surely did not put him high up on the popularity list.

Illya reminded himself he was there to do a job and nothing more; he was not there to make friends. Yet thinking about replacing his partner made him feel as though he were betraying Napoleon, but for the sake of functioning properly he decided for the moment, out of sight out of mind was the best course of action.

.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the meeting concluded, allowing him to head up directly up to medical. Napoleon was at last awake, and was beginning to seem himself.

"Hey tovarisch, how did the meeting go?" Solo groggily asked.

"Fine, everything is in order, but I will be happy when you return to take over."

Napoleon knew when his friend was lying. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I am not one for such meetings that is all, and I suppose I am not quite ready to step into your shoes."

"And you shouldn't be. I'm not ready to give up the ghost." Solo crinkled his nose.

Dr. Mendez came in to check on the patient. "Ah, Napoleon you're awake. Let's do some tests?"

He poked, prodded and tickled Solo's legs and feet and after a few minutes, he smiled as he saw acceptable responses.

"Good, I think you'll be fine. A little rehab and recuperation will be in order, I'm pleased to say."

Solo looked to his partner, seeing him looking quite pleased.

"You're looking happier than me."

"Perhaps I am. I was not looking forward to breaking in a new partner."

"Gee, thanks, I think?"

 


	78. Hot dogs and onions

It was a hot summer's day as the two UNCLE agents walked down the block from headquarters, and stopping at a hotdog vendor, Napoleon decided on a quick bite to eat. Illya Kuryakin watched in disgust as his partner downed nearly the entire hot dog with onions and catsup in just a few bites.

"How can you eat that?" Though the Russian loved his food, there were a few things that he didn't care for, and hotdogs were one of them.

Napoleon flashed him a snarky look. "This coming from a man who eats grubs."

"At least grubs will not give me a case of bad breath." Illya pointed at the last mouthful of the offending food. "May I remind you that will surely chase away the ladies Napoleon."

Solo froze in his tracks, snapping his fingers. "Umm, excuse me while I head to that drug store across the street for some breath mints."

"Good, at least I will not have to put up with your onion breath."

"I'm not getting them for your sake."

"Ah yes, but I will reap their benefit, nonetheless," Illya smiled.

"You know what Mister smart aleck Russian, just for that, I'm going to have another hot dog, with extra onions...so there."

Napoleon was about to take a bite of his second hot dog when a beautiful brunette wearing a tight red dress and high heels came around the corner. She looked him up and down and smiled.

"Hello handsome," she said in sultry voice.

"Hi there, if you'd excuse me for a second, I'll be right back. Napoleon instantly tossed the hot dog in the trash, and hustled across the street to the drugstore.

When he returned, the brunette was gone.

Illya shrugged his shoulders as Napoleon looked about for her. "Perhaps I was right," he suggested. "Next time you should not eat these hot dogs with onions.

"Either that or just keep breath mints with me at all times," Napoleon joked as they headed down the street, returning to headquarters.

"Ah yes, the best of both worlds," the Russian answered sarcastically. "Having your cake and eating it too."

"That's having your onions, tovarisch..."

 


	79. Appreciating what you have

The sun was finally shining, no thunderclouds in sight and the weather forecast indicated it would be a delightful Independence Day.

Napoleon checked the mooring lines on his yacht, making a few last preparations to sail his new boat, the Pursang, out into Long Island sound.

He looked at his watch, as he glanced up the dock. No sign of his Russian partner. He'd invited Illya to spend the day with him out on the water, where they'd eat drink and after sunset they'd head up the Hudson to watch the new fireworks display, perhaps anchoring near Lady Liberty herself.

At this point, it looked like he'd be doing it alone. Illya was dodgy when it came to accepting the invitation. Though the man had been in the Soviet Navy, he disliked the water. Imagine being in the navy and getting seasick. In Illya's case, quite an embarrassment.

If it hadn't been for the fact that he served on board a submarine, he probably wouldn't have survived his tour of duty. Like so many other things, Illya was closed-mouthed about that as well.

Napoleon looked up again to see his partner walking down the dock towards him. He was loaded with a box that looked rather heavy.

"Hi chum, glad you decided to make it," Napoleon grinned."What's in the box?"

"Ginger beer, and a few other things to keep my stomach settled, and something for you, the host."

"Illya the water is like glass out there today. It's so calm we're probably going to have to motor instead of unfurling the sails," Solo apologized.

"That does not matter, as I have seen myself be sick in the calmest of seas. You are lucky Napoleon, that you do not get sea sick. It is an awful feeling..."

"Well I'll keep my fingers crossed for you," he took the box, carrying to the deck, resisting the urge to peek inside.

"What does crossing fingers have to do with preventing seasickness?"

Napoleon just stared at him for a moment. "Never mind." He decided not to start anything with Illya, given the man had even showed up. He supposed that was pretty gutsy on Illya's part, given his little problem. He wondered why he said yes, really.

They untied the mooring lines, and Napoleon started up the motor, navigating out of the marina. He gave it a bit more power when they cleared the last buoy, steering the Pursang out into the sound.

Illya was sitting on a bench in the aft, and periodically Solo would turn to check on him. The blond had his eyes closed, with his face turned upwards towards the sun, and as his hair blew in the soft breeze Napoleon thought for a moment how boyish the Russian looked.

When the 30 ft. yacht reached a nice spot, Napoleon turned off the engine and threw out the anchor.

"Okay buddy boy, let's get lunch going...well I'll take care of that. Did you bring a bathing suit? Why don't you take a swim while I get things ready."

"I did as a matter of fact," Illya smiled, "but first things first," he opened the box he'd brought pulling out the ginger beer and quite a few cans of Rheingold beer in a plastic bag filled with ice.

"Well Illya Kuryakin, I like how you're thinking," Napoleon smiled. Solo watched as his partner poured the ginger beer with some Rheingold in a tall glass.

"Alcoholic beer with sweet ginger soda? That sounds sort of disgusting if you don't mind me saying"

"I presume you've never heard of a thing called a 'shandy?' Illya said. "Though it is normally made with a lemon-lime soda and mixed with an ale. It is a rather popular summer drink in the U.K. and I became accustomed to it while I was stationed at UNCLE London. Try it my friend, I guarantee you will like it." The Russian handed his partner the tall tumbler.

Napoleon, as usual, made a face but tried it. "Wow this is pretty good." He took a larger mouthful.

Illya poured another, and they toasted to the American holiday. One after another, they continued to drink; Napoleon somehow forgetting lunch.

This went on for hours, and as the sun set, and Napoleon weighed anchor and headed to the East River for the fireworks display, navigating somewhat erratically as his partner's concoction had gotten him more than tipsy. He finally pulled a tray of cold cuts from the refrigerator and the two of them picked at it hungrily, still drinking the shandies.

They anchored amongst many other boats in the river there for the fireworks, and the two agents settled in just as the colorful show began; with the ferocity and frequency of the beautiful display impressed the Russian tremendously.

"These are quite effective...hic. I like big booms and I like how your country celebrates this day. Mmm can you just smell the gunpowder in the air? We have fireworks in Red Square too, though they are much bigger display than this." Illya's Russian accent was beginning to show as was his national pride.

"Yes they are chum good aren't they? This is going on all across the country...people gathering to celebrate their freedoms. He raised his glass, "Here's to the U.S. and Old Glory!"

"Old Glory?" Illya asked.

"It's a common nickname for the flag of the United States, bestowed by a fellow named William Driver who was an early nineteenth-century American sea captain."

"Oh, thhhank you ferrr telling me that. Yesss, here is to your country and flag, both representing a great freedom. It seeeeems to me not all Americanski realize that and take for granted."

"Well said Illya. I guess that's why UNCLE's here, to remind people to appreciate what they have and not just here in the in this country."

BOOOOOOM!

"Oh that was good one," Illya smiled, raising his glass to his American partner with a wink of his eye.

 


	80. Taedium Vitae

"Hi Napoleon," the new receptionist at the agent's entrance coyly greeted him as he and Illya entered headquarters. She leaned forward, giving him an eyeful as the top two buttons of her yellow blouse were undone.

"Mmmm, hi Gina," he responded, not able to resist taking a peek at her lovely cleavage as she pinned on his ID badge."Getting ready for our date this evening?"

"Excuse me," Illya interrupted, " but I have work to do, unlike some. May I have my badge please?"

"Oops, I'm sorry Mr. Kuryakin," the girl shrugged apologetically.

He snatched the yellow triangle from her hand, pinning it on his lapel in a huff, leaving his partner to continue his flirting. The Russian headed off through the secondary entrance but as soon as he crossed the threshold klaxons began to blare and the emergency lights flashed, alternating between red and green.

Illya immediately drew his Special, but suddenly found himself surrounded by members of the Section V security team.

The door behind him opened an Napoleon stepped in with his gun drawn.

"Will someone tell me what is going on here?"Illya demanded as he returned his weapon to its holster.

"Sorry sir, scanners showed an intruder alert," one of the agents said as he leaned in, looking at Illya's badge.

"May I see that sir?"

Kuryakin removed his ID, handing it over to the man. Upon closer examination it was determined the badge had not been coated with the security film meant to allow the security system to discern authorized personnel in headquarters from intruders.

Gina stuck her head through the open door. "Sorry my fault. I was speaking to Mr. Solo and forgot to imprint Mr. Kuryakins badge." She sheepishly shrugged her shoulders.

"I know you are new Miss Mathers, but overseeing the ID badges is one of your primary functions, please do not let it happen again," Illya coldly chastised her as the security team disbursed.

She looked to Napoleon with concern filling her eyes.

"Am I going to get fired?"

"No, I'll see there's no mention of your name in the incident report. We'll just chalk it up as a defective badge instead, and a little inexperience."

"Thank you Napoleon," Gina said, retreating back to her desk.

"Why are you covering for her?" Illya asked bluntly as he and Napoleon headed down the busy corridor towards their office.

"Well it was sort of my fault; if I hadn't been flirting with her, it wouldn't have happened. She was preoccupied with me after all."

"So does this mean you will stop your libidinous distractions with the receptionists to keep such an incident from reoccurring?"

"Of course not," Napoleon grinned. "I'll just keep an eye out so it doesn't happen again."

Illya forced himself not to roll his eyes as he so often did, but the look on his face was a dead giveaway, revealing a tedium vitae when it came to Napoleon's unrelenting pursuit of women. It never changed, and perhaps that was why it became boring to the Russian.

"Perhaps I should warn Napoleon that he is becoming predictable?" Kuryakin asked himself, then quickly changed his mind. That would be like trying to ask a leopard to change its spots.

Napoleon Solo, after all, had a predatory nature when it came to the fairer sex.

 


	81. The Green Sofa

Napoleon tried to get comfortable on his partner's green sofa, shifting his position and getting tangled in the blanket in the process.

Illya walked out of the kitchen carrying a mug of steaming tea. He'd turned up the radiator to humor Solo, who always complained of the lower temperature in the apartment.

He preferred keeping it cooler, as that was what he was accustomed to, but Napoleon was not. The American's heat was on the fritz in his own place making it freezing, and sleeping on Illya's sofa was the most immediate solution as it was one in the morning, and not worth the cold trip to headquarters to stay in guest quarters, or to a hotel for that matter.

"Napoleon what is your problem? Do not tell me you are not warm enough? I myself am perspiring, it is so warm in here..."

"No it's not the temperature, that's comfortable by the way. It's your sofa, this thing is really lumpy. I think it's time to get a new one chum."

Illya looked at him as if Napoleon had asked him to cut off a limb.

"That sofa is perfectly serviceable, and besides it came with the apartment and is therefore the property of UNCLE and is not mine to dispose of."

"Tsk."

"I don't think UNCLE would really mind if you replaced it, leaving a new one in its place if you do finally move to another apartment."

Illya's look was now incredulous. "Why would I move? I have more living space here to myself than I have ever had in my adult life. I for one find that couch rather welcoming, like an old friend, yes it may have its lumps, but I am accustomed to them and besides, they give the sofa... character."

"Only you would say lumps show character," Napoleon snickered.

The Russian shook his head. "You know there are people back home who would give a year's wages for such a couch and an apartment that does not have to be shared with any others. You Americans take your comforts too much for granted."

He went into a closet and came back, tossing his partner an extra blanket.

"Here, tuck that beneath you to see if it helps."

"Thanks, I appreciate that." Solo smiled appreciatively. "And thanks for letting me stay here."

The American tried to envision the living conditions in which his partner once lived. Illya once spoke of sharing a one bedroom apartment with six other people; it was communal cooking and eating and a bathroom shared by an entire floor. Illya said he slept on a cot.

Napoleon supposed this old green sofa was like a slice of heaven to his partner, and snuggled in, adjusting his position and attitude to fit better among the lumps that had character.

Illya turned to go to his bedroom, but hearing his partner moan again, he looked at him.

His cat Nina was sitting on Napoleon's head, having made herself comfortable as the agent had just layed down to go to sleep.

"I think she has finally become accustomed to you,"Illya chuckled.

"Oh peachy. Good night chum."

"Good night Napoleon, and good night my little demon child."

_"Prrrrrrt...maiooooow."_

"Oh yes, dare I forget, good night Nina," Solo mumbled. "Well at least she'll make me forget about the lumps."

 


	82. Just hanging around

The air was thick with humidity as he looked down from his position, dangling from his bound wrists on an immense hook at the end of a pair of heavy steel cables that were connected to a tall crane. His shoulders were in severe pain and he was perspiring heavily, adding to his discomfort level.

He didn't do well in heat, as his Slavic bones generally preferred cooler climates. He didn't mind a vacation in a warm locale, but the heat, when it came to his job usually ended up being more extreme than he preferred.

Moaning as he tried to move; he decided against attempting to swing his feet up in an effort to unhook himself, and besides being this far up in the air, if he missed his grip with his sweaty hands, he'd fall to his death on the grey concrete floor below.

A door creaked open, and a dark-haired man carefully entered the warehouse, gun in hand. Napoleon Solo looked up, spying his partner's situation.

"How you doing up there?" He called.

"Quite well actually, considering I am suspended thirty feet in the air, but the view is becoming a bit tedious. Could you please get me down from here?" The Russian called back. "I suggest the controls in the crane."

Napoleon smirked at his partner stating the obvious. "Just hang in there a second," he said as he climbed into the cab of the crane.

"Cute Napoleon."

"You keep getting yourself in these predicaments, don't you  _tovarisch?_ "

"Trust me I prefer not being strung up like a piece of meat, and I do try to avoid these situations, but they just seem to sneak up on me. Now if you would please hurry, as I am actually in some pain."

Solo started up the machine, slowly lowering his partner down to the ground.

Once off the hook, Illya was able to undo his bonds quite easily. He rubbed his wrists and rotated his shoulders to loosen their stiffness.

"You okay now chum?"

"I have been better."

The door to the warehouse began to creak open again, sending the UNCLE agents into hiding.

There were curses and accusations uttered, as the THRUSH argued among themselves, blaming each other for Illya's escape, and making no attempt to look for him. They left, discussing who was going to call the news into Central that the Russian had escaped.

"And you let yourself get caught by those idiots?" Napoleon jabbed. "You're losing your touch."

"There is no need to insult me. I did not let them do anything, it...it just happened."

"Yeah right," the American was now snickering."

"Stop it." Illya growled. "As I recall you have gotten yourself caught in a fair few situations that would have embarrassed a rookie."

"All right, no need to be sarcastic."

"You were the one doing the insulting. The phrase 'fair play' comes to mind."

"Okay, point taken," Solo huffed. "Let's blow this joint before the idiots get told they have to actually look for you."

"Do you mean that literally or figuratively," Illya grinned.

"You are a single-minded man Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon said, tossing his partner some explosive putty.

 


	83. There are bugs and then there are 'bugs'

The blond Russian agent stepped out of the small house where he and his partner were guarding a member of the THRUSH council who was changing sides.

He'd had a change of heart and now wanted to work with 'the good guys' as he referred to UNCLE. The man's knowledge of the inner workings of that evil organization would be invaluable, and a major boon to the Command.

There was an odd buzzing sound that suddenly became louder, and as the Russian lit his cigarette, he was accosted by some strange insect with large wings and red eyes. It was rather hideous looking.

"T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t..." Apparently the bug was the source of the noise.

Illya kicked it aside with his shoe, not wanting to look at it.

Napoleon stepped out to the porch, joining his partner for a smoke.

"Ah nothing like the sounds of the country," he sighed. "We just had to be up here for this. Talk about bad timing."

"What is 'this' that you are referring to my friend," Illya asked, brushing another of the strange bugs from his shoulder.

"It's Cicada season."

"What the devil is a Cicada?"

"Seriously, you,Mr. I-know-everything doesn't know what a Cicada is?"

Illya smiled not letting his partner's comment get the better of him.

"I may not know everything, but once I have learned about something...I do not forget it. Remember, 'eidetic memory.' So are you going to tell me what these Cicada creatures are or not?"

Napoleon grinned, pleased with himself that he knew something his partner didn't...for once.

Having recently read about them in the Encyclopedia Britannica, he quoted it nearly verbatim to the curious Russian.

"Cicadas spend most of their lives underground feeding on fluids from the roots of deciduous trees in the eastern United States. After 17 years, mature cicada nymphs emerge once the ground temperature has reached a consistent 64 degrees, and they come out in tremendous numbers. After such a prolonged developmental phase, the adults are active for about four to six weeks. The males gather into chorus centers and attract mates. Within two months of the original emergence, the life cycle is complete, the eggs have been laid and the adult cicadas are gone for another seventeen years." *

"Amazing, so these insects, other than being noisy and destructive to trees live a life span of four to six weeks and die, having no other purpose in life than to procreate and start another seventeen year cycle. Sometimes I do not understand Mother Nature. I wonder if Darwin's theory of the survival of the fittest applies to these creatures who exist for no productive reason?"

Before Napoleon could comment, the sounds of the Cicadas drew closer and he and his partner were suddenly inundated by swarms of them.

Solo ran for the garden hose, dowsing him and his partner to clean the disgusting creatures off of them before retreating into the house.

They stood there, dripping wet as more of the bugs covered the screen door.

"Oh just peachy," Illya mumbled.

"Hey, that's my line," Napoleon fired back.

"Does it really matter? It is the truth, I think."

"I suppose not. I better call Mr. Waverly and tell him we might be a bit late tomorrow..."

"Good idea," Illya tiptoed, dripping on the hardwood floor as he headed to his room to change.

A Cicada suddenly appeared at his feet, followed by another and another.

"Quick close the damper, "Napoleon yelled, and diving for the fireplace himself, he pulled the chain.

The living room was swarming with the creatures, and the agents grabbed whatever they could to capture them, hearing some of them crunched beneath their feet as the ran and flush them down the toilet.

After the mess was cleaned up, Illya shook himself, though usually not one to be bothered by insects.

"That was exciting," he mumbled.

The door to the bedroom creaked open and out peeked their THRUSH guest.

"What was exciting? And what is that buzzing sound outside? It's gotten so loud that it woke me up," he yawned.

"Nevermind Sleeping Beauty, go back to bed," Napoleon said, not wanting to bother to explain.


	84. Welcome to America

When Illya Kuryakin first arrived in New York for his new assignment he was taken to headquarters directly from the airport to the little tailor shop that would lead him to another world, a clandestine one, hidden from the everyday person out on the street.

The drive there was an eye-opening one, as he tried not to gawk at the multitude of tall buildings, the hustle and bustle as well as the neon lights. He'd not seen anything like it, except perhaps Piccadilly Circus back in London's West End. It wasn't quite the same, but it was the only thing he could compare to it.

As he stepped from the UNCLE car in front of Del Floria's, looking around, and  was surprised at the simplicity of the street compared to what he'd seen on the drive from the airport.

Illya walked down the three steps, and hesitated just for a second before turning the knob and opening the door.

 

This was a major step for him, coming to New York, yet a relief to get away from the presence of Harry Beldon.

A small brass bell tinkled his arrival to an older man behind a steam press, who looked up at him with a welcoming smile.

"Just go the dressing room," he winked.

The Russian knew the entry procedure, having been briefed on the way over, just go into the dressing room and turn the hook. It was as simple as that, yet complex as a door to another world would open for him.

Illya did so and was greeted by a pleasant and pretty receptionist who handed him his badge.

"Mr. Waverly is expecting you Mr. Kuryakin, just go through the next door and..."

 

"Thank you, I know the way," he said, showing no emotion. He stepped through the secondary entrance, looking about before he proceeded on, making sure he had his bearings.

Illya Kuryakin met with Alexander Waverly again for the first time in three years, and decided he still liked the man. He was given a tour of headquarters, assigned a desk of his own in Section II, after which he was assigned his living quarters.

A one bedroom apartment in the East 40's, and after being deposited there by a Section III agent, he closed the door and revelled in the space that was to be all his own.

Compared to the single room flat he had in the East End of London, it was spacious, and best of all he did not have to share it with anyone...thinking back on his time as an agent in the Soviet Union where he shared living space with no less than six people.

In his new apartment there was a green sofa, a small dining table and chairs, several bookshelves, reading lamps...more furnishings than he had when he lived in London.

The boxes with his books and other meager belongings had arrived and were stacked to one corner. Those he would deal with later. He wandered into the bedroom and there he spotted a nice sized bed, a dresser, two night stands and a dressing mirror. All his to use...he was in awe.

Illya wandered back out, exploring the kitchen. Lots of cabinet space, a refrigerator with a freezer, sink and a gas stove.

He sighed, feeling quite contented and walking back out the living room, he lowered himself to the floor and lay there spread eagle, smiling to himself. The serenity of the moment was only disturbed by the rumbling of his stomach.

 

Luckily he had money in his pocket and would go out to explore his neighborhood, finding someplace to eat.

 

It was too much to hope that his employer had left food in the refrigerator as a welcoming gift...he looked anyway and much to his surprise there was a platter awaiting his attention. Things like that never happened.

Back home GRU kept their agents lean and hungry, though when he joined UNCLE he ate much better thanks to what he considered a generous paycheck.

 

Still, something told him to look in the refrigerator, there much to his surprise was a veritable feast.

 

There were ssorted cheeses, mushrooms, pickles, hard-boiled eggs, sliced roast beef, crusty brown bread, and lastly a big pot of borscht; beside it sat a container labelled 'sour cream'.

Illya smiled as he read a card in an envelope in front of his feast."Welcome to America, and UNCLE." It was signed Alexander Waverly. "Be back at headquarters promptly at 7 a.m. tomorrow...and look in the freezer."

Illya did as the note instructed, finding an ice-cold bottle of Stolichnaya vodka there waiting for him.

 _"Dobro pozhalovat' v Ameriku deystvitel'no_welcome to America indeed_ ,'' he grinned as he opened the bottle and took a swig from it.

The bosses in GRU never treated him like this...


	85. Sticks and stones, again...

"Hey that move wasn't legal Kuryakin!" His opponent called out, wiping the blood from his mouth.

Illya was dancing around the man who stood at least a good ten inches taller than him.

"All is fair in love and war," Illya shot back, followed by a roundhouse kick to the agent's solar plexus, doubling him over with an 'oof ' as he fell to the floor.

The Russian offered him a hand up, but in return when his guard was down for that split second of gentlemanly behavior, his opponent swept his legs out from under him, sending him flying backwards to the mat.

"So how do you like that, you pinko piece of crap Russkie? Hey Commie, we Americans can fight dirty too."

That was the last word out of the man's mouth, as Illya managed to flip himself to his feet and dove for Beaufort just as he was standing up.

Fists flew, and it turned into an all out brawl in the gymnasium and by the time Security arrived Kuryakin was on top of the man, raising his first for a final blow that would signal his victory.

"That's enough!" A Section V agent bellowed out.

The tousled blond froze in place, looking up and seeing his partner running through the gym door towards him.

"It's okay boys, I'll handle it from here," Solo announced.

"But Mr. Solo..."

"No buts, I'm CEA and Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Beaufort are under my command...as I said, I'll take it from here."

"Yes sir, but we still have to report the incident to Mr. Waverly."

"Give me about forty-five minutes before you do that?"

"All right Mr. Solo, whatever you say." The Security detail backed off and left the gym.

At that point Illya and George Beaufort stood, bloodied and bruised in front of their Section Chief.

"Okay, who started it?"

Two sets of fingers pointed at each other simultaneously.

Napoleon ran his hand through his neatly coiffed hair, shaking his head and for once rolled his eyes.

"George, hit the showers and I'll talk to you in my office in a half hour.

The man stalked off to to the locker room without a word.

"So _ tovarisch _ what happened?"

"Our sparring match became a bit more animated when he uttered several derogatory names to me regarding my ethnicity and political affiliation and I lost my temper. I apologize Napoleon, I should not have let the man goad me." Illya picked up a towel from a nearby bench, wiping some of the blood from his face.

"Don't tell me, he called you a pinko Commie Russkie, among other things?"

"All of the above. I know it is childish, but..."

"I suppose the old adage 'sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me' doesn't mean much to you, does it?"

"I have never heard that," Illya cocked his head as he checked to make sure his nose wasn't broken. "I will take that to heart in the future."

'Good idea chum."

Alexander Waverly was annoyed by the incident, so much so that he decided to let Solo, as CEA, handle it and dispense the appropriate punishment as he knew he was not in a very forgiving mood at the moment. Napoleon wasn't happy about it, feeling he was now being tested, since his partner was involved.

Beaufort was written up for language unbecoming a Section II agent, and transferred to an outpost in the mid-west, manned by a contingent of agents mostly of Slavic descent. He was warned that such another bigoted remark could cost him his position with the Command.

Illya was another story, though defending his honor, brawling was not acceptable in headquarters. Napoleon was at a loss as to what to do with his partner and asked himself what was the one thing Illya hated to do?

The next day Illya Kuryakin was assigned desk duty in the records department, section Z. Very few people had need of the few files under that alphabetical heading, so the next week there would be a boring one for his partner, to say the least.

.

The room where Kuryakin was sequestered was deathly silent except for the sound of an air vent whirring away; Illya could read of course, and nap to his heart's content. There would be no one to bother him, so the punishment really wasn't as bad as it looked.

Waverly found it quite amusing..."Couldn't have done better if I'd ordered it myself Mr. Solo. Though, in the foul mood I was in, Mr. Kuryakin might not have fared as well," the Old Man harrumphed as he lit his pipe, taking a long drag on it.

Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief, remembering the Old Man's fondness for Illya as well as the man being his pet project of sorts.

"And what might you have done sir?" Napoleon flipped through one of the folders in front of him for their weekly budget meeting.

"Sent him on inspection duty to our field offices located near the tropical equator, where it was extremely hot and humid of course." Waverly knew how his Russian hated those extreme temperatures.

"Eww, cruel sir, very cruel," Napoleon smiled.

"Indeed."


	86. Having doubts can be a dangerous thing

Illya Kuryakin stood still on the workout mat in the UNCLE gymnasium. His opponent, a young Section III agent hesitated, yet again during their judo lesson.

The Russian stepped away, waving the man...Peter to join him on a nearby bench."

"You have doubts in your abilities and they are showing." Illya said, wiping his face with a white terry cloth towel.

"That obvious Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I am afraid so Peter. Hesitation could cost you your life. You must think on why you have these doubts.

You were confident enough to make it through training school and become and UNCLE agent, so why now is inaction manifesting itself?"

"Sorry sir, I don't know why."

"Peter we spend our whole lives living with ourselves and is the longest relationship you we ever have, and one perhaps you take for granted. It is amazing to me how often we fail to pay attention to the one person we are most intimate with. We should know ourselves better than any other, yet some of us do not.

Some people dislike themselves, and do not trust in their own capabilities. Could this be you?"

The agent was taken back by Kuryakin's rather profound observations and Peter asked himself, did he really like the man he was or was facing the reality of being an UNCLE agent, making him afraid of his own shadow and doubting himself."

Illya watched as the young man hesitated, waiting patiently as he suspected he would get an answer to his questions.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I have to be honest...I think I wasn't cut out to be an agent after all."

"I understand. Self-doubt brings fear, as in the fear of failure, of the dark, of being out of control, of not being good enough...as well as danger. Early in an agent's career it is easy to let fear affect your judgement and confidence. Give it time and you will feel better about it. As a Section III agent, you will not be exposed to the hazards of field work just yet, though I know you are very much aware of them. Still you must be prepared for the unexpected, and that is what today's workout was all about."

"Yes sir." Peter stood up, offering his hand to the Russian. "Thank you. I understand now."

 

Three months later Illya visited Peter Cummings in medical, as the agent had been wounded during a courier drop. Someone had tried to relieve him of the package he was carrying but the young man fought them off, and saved the package but nearly at the cost of his life.

"So I see you have learned to control your fears and doubts Peter, " Illya cast a little smile. "Though I would have much preferred your initiation to the real world of espionage not have landed you here."

"No that's okay Mr. K. You were right about it all. If I hadn't had confidence in myself to do this job, then I probably would have gotten killed out there. It was your little talk to me that made all the difference and saved my life."

Illya shook his hand and left, happy that his words to the young man had not gone unheeded. Peter Cummings was going to make a fine operative.

 


	87. Clothes make the man

"Clothes make the man,"an adage that was surely applicable to my partner Napoleon Solo.

He wears his clothing with style and his attire is impeccable. Napoleon has an air of elegance about him, granted, it is costly designer clothing, but still, I have seen other men wearing similar suits who do not look as good in them as does my partner.

It is a shame his expensive suits are so often damaged while on assignment, and that makes accounting bristle all the more when Napoleon puts in for reimbursement on his expense account.

They cannot understand why he refuses to wear less expensive clothing, but my partner will simply not wear anything 'off the rack' as he puts it.

I do own a better suit or two myself, but I rarely wear them out in the field. I find it wise to keep to my basic black everything 'off the rack clothes, as one of us has to keep accounting happy. And besides I am the one who seems to always be in distress...being pushed into ponds, having monster jars of olive oil crash on my head, or being chased into a mud puddle or lovely mess of quicksand.

Napoleon often chides me for always wearing the same color, but I tell him I never need to be concerned about having to make anything match. If I tear a jacket or a pair of trousers, I have another black one to take its place. I think it is quite logical, cost-effective, and pragmatic.

That is my nature, but he tells me I am just being cheap.

The first time he said that to me, I declined to defend myself, but since then I have stood fast in my reasoning and frugality. My partner has never done without as I have for most of my life, though I hope he never has to do so.

Still I have to admire Napoleon Solo, as he never compromises when it comes to his personal image. Yes, clothes can make the man, but in his case, but I think it is more the man makes the clothes."

"There is only one Napoleon Solo..."


	88. Schrödinger's cat

It was a bright sunny day in New York city, the temperatures were at last comfortable and the humidity gone, at least for now.

Two men, a blond and a brunette walked, or perhaps more aptly, strolled along the sidewalk. Their destination, a small tailor's shop only a few blocks away and given that it was finally a pleasant day, they decided to forego a taxi.

"Would that your American summers would always be like this," the blond mumbled.

"I have to agree with you, this is more comfortable," Napoleon Solo smiled at a pretty blonde wearing a bright yellow mini-dress as she passed them by.

"No side trips,"Illya warned,"We do have a briefing to attend to as you recall?"

"I remember and I am allowed to look you know."

"Perhaps we need to limit your ogling, say... to twice a day. It might help your concentration on other things," the Russian smiled.

"Excuse me? I haven't got problem..." Solo left his sentence unfinished as he turned his attention to a redhead who'd just stepped out of a clothing shop.

"Helllooooo..." Illya called. "You were saying you do not have a problem?"

"What? Oh. Yes, I don't have a problem concentrating."

"Then what just happened? You could not even finish what you were saying to me."

Solo scrunched up his face at his partner."Hey, when something important is going on, I pay attention. At least I don't have my nose buried in a science journal all the time, letting the world pass me by like someone I know..."

"Oh really? Those journals have given me quite a bit of useful knowledge for our assignments."

"Oh and I suppose 'Schrödinger's Cat' has come in real handy while in the field?"

Illya was momentarily surprised that his partner even knew of the physics term."

That my friend is an older theory, though a viable one; it can even be applied to this conversation. "just like Schrödinger's cat being alive and dead at the same time", this conversation currently has both "good and bad" probabilistic outcomes. The only way to find out is to "open the box" so to speak..., in other words collapse the wave-function of an uncertain action into a specific outcome."

"Huh?" Napoleon now looked bewildered.

"If we continue along our merry way towards headquarters with you stopping your gaping at the women who pass us, then all will be good as I'll help you clear your desk of reports, if we do not...well your reports will remain untouched by me."

"This is Schrödinger's Cat?"

"Yes in his theory the cat is either dead or alive...it is a thought experiment, a paradox, and illustrates what Schrödinger saw as the problem of the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics applied to everyday objects. The thought experiment presents a cat that might be alive or dead, depending on an earlier random event. In the course of developing this experiment, he coined the term  _ Verschränkung, _ meaning entanglement."

"Sorry but I think you've lost me chum. So what do I have to do to get you to help me with my reports?"

"Stop the flirtatious wanderings with your eyes and the outcome will be good, continue to do so and the outcome will be bad as you will not receive any help from me...not a true paradox but it will do..." Illya smiled.

"You know deep down you're really shallow Kuryakin."

"Ah, you are beginning to understand the theory, as that my friend is indeed a paradox."

Napoleon huffed, not quite sure where the conversations was going, and cocked his eyebrows at his partner's proposal. He stopped walking, pointing his finger at the Russian.

"Just for today?" He flashed his saddened hazel eyes at his partner.

Illya snickered just as they reached the steps to Del Floria's.

"All right those parameters are acceptable, just for today."

The American snapped his fingers as he smiled.

"What was that for?" Illya quirked his head.

"Ohhhh, nothing."

Napoleon opened the door, hearing the familiar ringing of the brass bell, gesturing his hand in front of himself.

"After you," he said, rather pleased with himself, as he'd decided he had the winning hand on this one. He could survive the day without any flirting, given he'd be in meetings most of the day, and Illya would be taking care of typing out the stack of reports on his desk.

"I think I like this Schrödinger's Cat theory," Napoleon smiled.

"Really? That is a first," Illya said, suddenly feeling as though he'd been had in some strange way.


	89. Cranky Illya

He'd been confined to medical for way longer than he'd wanted to be and all the cajoling, wheedling and temper tantrums in the world did nothing to have his time there reduced.

Nurse Kelly walked into his room with a bundle wrapped in brown paper and a pair of wooden crutches.

"Okay Mr. Kuryakin, the doctor...thank God, has ordered your release," she muttered, handing him the package.

"And what is this?"

"Oh, a change of clothes, since we had to cut yours off when you were admitted for treatment...longest ten days I've ever been through."

"You? How about me?" Illya grumbled.

"No complaining or I'll make sure you have to stay another week, in the secure Medical wing...you know, the place where we keep injured  _ prisoners _ ," Kelly threatened with a wink.

He tried not to smile. "Sorry I was so rude to you."

"Forget about it, just get out of here before I change my mind."

She closed the door to his room, giving him some privacy to change. It was nothing complicated, a grey sweatshirt and pair of sweatpants, luckily loose enough to fit over his leg with the cast as well as the cast on his right wrist.

It took him a few minutes to maneuver with his hand being hampered, but eventually he was dressed...except for his sneaker. Illya scrunched up his face, knowing he would need help with that.

He opened the door, peeking out and giving Nurse Kelly a wave of his finger, signalling he needed her help.

As he sat patiently on the bed, quietly accepting her assistance...and mildly surprised she was being nice about it, Kelly put on his sock and laced up the sneaker for him.

"There,' she said, standing up." You're good to go.

A knock on the door drew both their attention, as Napoleon's head popped into view.

"So partner mine, you ready to dash to freedom?" He joked, pushing a wheelchair into the room."Your chariot awaits m'Lord."

Illya refused, "I can use my crutches if you do not mind."

"Actually, it's a new policy. Patients who aren't fully mobile have to leave Medical via wheelchair."

Both Napoleon and Nurse Kelly charged from the room as a crutch came flying through the air...


	90. Some changes aren't for the best

"Seriously….styrofoam plates? No, correct that, styrofoam trays with food compartments. What is this, prison? What happened to the dishes?" Napoleon Solo balked as his food was ladled onto the new tray. It wasn't very sturdy and he needed to place it on top of one of the metal serving trays at the end of the line.

"If I'd wanted my food separated, I'd have stayed in the army."

There were five neat little compartments on the tray, segregating Napoleon's paltry cube steak, from the peas and carrots, mashed potatoes, green beans and in the last section, a small cup of sliced peaches.

"I agree Napoleon, "April chimed in from behind him." This reminds me of those dreadful T.V. dinners that are all the rage...eww, they're disgusting."

"I find them palatable, as well as convenient," Illya said as he stepped up beside her. "We have our usual corner table, " he directed her with a nod. "As to the styrofoam plates...did you not read the memo that is a cost cutting maneuver on the part of accounting for the Commissary. Apparently there were too many plates being broken and not by accident. Someone even took a few down to the indoor range and was tossing them like clay pigeons."

The all sat down together at their usual spot; both Napoleon and April's eyes went wide open as Kuryakin had two trays where he sat, loaded with just about everything that was on the afternoon menu.

"What?" He looked up at them, sensing their stares.

"So you like these compartmentalized things chum?"

"Yes, it actually enables me to add more to my plate, and things do not….mix, or rather run together." He dug into a piece of Chicken Cordon Bleu.

"Illya dear, you could just go back for seconds you know," April put in her two cents worth.

"Don't go there April," Napoleon blurted out, but it was too late.

"Where I came from, there were never left overs. I lived with…"

"Yeah, yeah, we know. You lived with six other people in a one-bedroom apartment and there was never enough food and they ate like animals yadda yadda yadda. Tovarisch, we've heard it before,okay? Yes we know you have a high metabolism as well, but isn't it about time you adapted to your new home. There'll always be seconds, and heck, there'll always be room for jello too." Solo snickered at that last remark.

The Russian looked as calm as could be. "Napoleon, there is no need to belittle my eating habits. If you do not like them, then you do not have to sit with me….I will move elsewhere. We both have our own ways of doing things and there is nothing wrong with that. And you know I do loathe that green jello."

"I didn't say anything about green jello," Solo grinned.

"There, look what you've done Napoleon; you've insulted our friend," April chided. "I think you should apologize to him.

The American let a rare moment of embarrassment get hold of his expression. "Gee, Illya I wasn't trying to insult you, honestly. Sorry if I did."

"Apology accepted. Now may we just relax and eat in peace?"

"Sure, but this doesn't mean I have to like the styrofoam plates...do I? Hmmm, I wonder if we could used these for target practice too?"

"Oh it was you who used the plates then?" April took an accusatory tone.

"I admit to nothing," Napoleon smiled, with a twinkle in his eye."

"Ye reap what ye sow, Napoleon Solo, so don't complain about the styrofoam, as it's your fault." April chided, wagging a bright red nail polished finger at him.

"I deny any culpability," He speared a piece of steak and popped it in his mouth.

"So you deny being called into the Old Man's office for a dressing down?" Illya grinned.

"Well, umm, no. Hey how did you find out about that?"

"My Russian lips are sealed. Case closed. So stop complaining about the styrofoam my friend. Now if I have done my calculations correctly, and I usually do; accounting will find these replacements, in the end, cost prohibitive and we will get our regular dishes back. I will estimate, in about a month." Illya left the table coming back with another tray filled with small samplings of deserts.

"Well if you keep using the trays at the rate you are Illya dear...it might be sooner than you predict,"April laughed.

"Eat away tovarisch, would you like me to get you some more food?" Napoleon smirked.

 


	91. A miscalculation

The glowing fire was a welcoming sight as Napoleon removed his winter coat and galoshes. It was a chill evening, not cold enough for snow, though there was still plenty of it left on the ground.

"Glad you got that going," he rubbed his hands together to warm them and smiled at Marjorie, his companion for the long weekend. He'd let her into the family cabin in the Catskills, while he parked the car and gathered the groceries to bring inside.

They'd brought enough victuals for the next four days; thick steaks, lamb chops with all the trimmings, the makings for Caesar salad, pastries, wine, champagne, oysters, chocolate covered strawberries and other fresh fruit... bacon, eggs and toast for breakfast, cold cuts for sandwiches along with the makings for a nice pot of chicken soup with dumplings.

The pair wouldn't have to leave their love nest for any reason, except for their planned excursion to do a little skiing.

Marge was a great cook and didn't mind taking care of the meals though Napoleon said dinner was his specialty and would handle that.

After the groceries were put away, he opened the champagne with a loud 'pop' and brought out the chocolate covered strawberries to set the mood.

"Yum, these are delicious," Marge smiled, biting into a strawberry and taking big sip of champagne.

"I know something, or rather someone more delicious," he wrapped his arms around the gorgeous brunette and pulled her to him, giving her a long...slow...kiss."

"Mmm, you taste extraordinarily good," he whispered, nibbling on her earlobe.

They made their way to the bearskin rug in front of the fire, and one piece at a time their articles of clothing were removed.

"Oh Napoleon, this is wonderful," Marge gasped as he unhooked her black lace brassière, releasing her beautiful breasts.

They finally made love with the crackling fire as their background, and as they lay entwined together in the afterglow, Napoleon's head suddenly rose with concern.

There was the creak of a floorboard above them...someone was upstairs."

He grabbed his shirt, handing it to Marge. "Put this on and wait here."

"Napoleon, I'm frightened." He held his finger to her lips, giving her a reassuring kiss on the cheek.

He quickly pulled on his pants, retrieving his gun from beneath the sofa pillow where he'd tucked it, and headed towards the stairs.

There it was again, another creak, coming from the master bedroom, he guessed by the location.

Knowing the stairs well, he crept up them, avoiding the steps he knew would give him away. Once he made it to the landing, he walked carefully in his bare feet until he reached the door.

Napoleon took a deep breath, and though he knew it would be painful, he kicked in the door.

"Freeze!" He said to the shadowy figure beside the bed, pointing his gun directly at it.

_ "Napoleon? _ "

_ "Heather?  _ What are you doing here honey?" He turned on the light switch, finding McNabb standing there looking oh so sultry, dressed in one of his suit jackets that barely covered her naked body.

"Did you forget you invited me? I arrived early and I figured I'd come up here to surprise you."

For a split second his head reeled at the thought he might have screwed up somehow. That miniscule pause allowed Heather to reached for his pants, and try to undo the zipper.

"Oh boy…um, Heather. I have, um, company downstairs."

"And I'm trying to let him out," she giggled, misunderstanding him.

"No, I meant, someone is downstairs….Marjorie from Communications, to be precise."

"Oh...OH? Did I make a mistake?

"Yes, I invited you here for next weekend." He groaned, though he looked her up and down, feeling sorely tempted by what he knew was beneath that jacket.

"I know that look Napoleon Solo….no way. I'm not sharing you with another woman in the same night."

"Would I do such a thing?" He smiled.

"Yes."

He scrunched up his face; she was right.

There was a creak from the hallway and he turned quickly as he heard footsteps coming in their way.

"Napoleon, is everything all right?" Marge called.

His eyes flashed to Heather, seeing her acknowledge their predicament as he turned out the light.

"Everything's fine Marge, go downstairs and I'll be there shortly. It's just a raccoon that's gotten inside and I have to chase it out...I won't be long. I promise."

"Just a raccoon?" He heard Heather giggle again.

As soon as Marge went back down the stairs, he responded.

"Not  _ 'just'. _ .." He reached out, taking Heather into his arms and kissed her while his hands wandered across her body.

"Oh Napoleon, how can I resist you," she moaned. Against her better judgement, she succumbed to his charms and they had a 'quickie,' before Napoleon retreated downstairs.

"Everything okay handsome?" Marge asked, still clothed in his shirt, looking quite relaxed as she draped herself provocatively on the sofa.

"Fine, fine...you know I'm a bit tired. Why don't we go to bed, that way we can get an early start for the ski slopes in the morning."

"But I'm hungry Napoleon. Did you forget about dinner."

"My dear, I believe I did...I was just so captivated by you. Tell you what, I'll bring us a tray of oysters and more champagne and we can nosh in bed. How does that sound?"

"Oh very romantic...mmmm oysters are my favorite."

"I bet they are." He took her by the hand, leading her towards the downstairs bedroom, and watched behind her as Heather tiptoed past, fully dressed except for her shoes she dangling in her hand.

She blew him a kiss as Marge stepped out of view.

"Excuse me while I check the door," he said. "Go ahead and get into bed...I'll be there in a minute.

"Don't be long Napoleon dear, I'm in the mood again to feel your big...

"Yes fine Marge," he interrupted her thought and rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind him and grabbed Heather before she stepped out onto the porch.

"No hard feelings?" He said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"None at the moment, but if any develop, you can make it up to me next weekend, and please no extra guests?"

"Why? Wouldn't a ménage à trois be…. _ exciting _ ?" He whispered facetiously.

"Napoleon Solo, you're incorrigible."

He shook his head as he walked back to the bedroom, wondering how he sometimes got himself into these predicaments.

Napoleon smiled, yes Heather was right; he  _ was  _ incorrigible...


	92. A white lie

"They were the best of the best," a Section III agent named Donnelly said as he sat at one of the tables in the Commissary. "I only wished I had a chance to work with them."

Some of the women from Communications sitting with him sniffed into their hankies, all of them, including the men, were teary-eyed.

Word spread like wildfire as the death of UNCLE's number one team of Solo and Kuryakin reverberated throughout headquarters.

Everyone was completely shocked when they heard the men had been caught in a satrap and the building burned to the ground, killing everyone within it.

"My handsome Napoleon," Wanda moaned, "that gorgeous man burned...I don't want to think about it."

"And Illya, that beautiful hair and blue eyes gone forever," one of the ladies sighed.

"That means that April Dancer is CEA and her partner Slate is her second in command."

"Wow, would UNCLE really let a woman be CEA?" One of the men asked.

"Hey, they wouldn't have made her a field agent if she wasn't capable," a secretary stepping up to the group joined in the conversation.

"Just because she's good in the field doesn't mean she can be a Section head," Charlie Burns added his two cents as he sat at the table. "The idea of a woman CEA just doesn't seem right to me."

"And what's wrong with that?"Wanda demanded. "She's a very capable and clever agent.

"Yeah if wiggling your fanny and batting your eyes makes you capable," Charlie lashed back at her.

"Hey knock it off Charlie, April is very capable of doing the job,"Louis Maté defended Dancer.

.

Mr. Waverly, Napoleon and Illya listened in on the conversations, having planted bugs beneath all the commissary tables. There the best gossip was spoken in whispers mostly in whispers, but not today.

"I'd say it's 50/50 in regards to April," Napoleon said, crossing his arms in front of himself.

"Hmm, quite yes," Waverly cleared his throat, "It would seem it's a mixed reaction to Miss Dancer assuming your position."

"Those in favor seem to be the women, the men opposed for the most part," Illya added.

"Yes I too noticed that Mr. Kuryakin. This confirms my sneaking suspicion there are still hidden prejudices within the Command. We will have to deal with those and the individuals exhibiting them."

"Sir I must be honest, I still have to deal with bigoted remarks here from time to time. Our people, though the best, are still only human," Illya added.

"No Mr. Kuryakin that is still unacceptable. I'll not stand for such ignorant behavior here at U.N. . Now if you'd care to tell me which individuals have been bothering you; I will have the issue taken care of," Waverly huffed.

Illya looked to his partner, regretting he'd opened that can of worms.

"Umm, sir?" Napoleon interrupted. "I took it upon myself as CEA to take care of counseling those individuals. There hasn't been a peep out of them since..."

"Oh, jolly good Mr. Solo. Thank you for being proactive on the matter. As for handling these new concerns now, might you be so kind as to deal with the individuals in the commissary so we can put this petty prejudice against Miss Dancer to rest."

"Umm, did you forget sir that Illya...Mr. Kuryakin and I are supposed to be dead?"

"Of course not young man," the CCO smiled back at him with a slight chuckle. "When these individuals are called in for counseling, your presence will take them off guard and help put them in their place. It will be interesting, to say the least, to see the looks on their faces. Now if you gentlemen would see yourselves out by way of my private entrance...dismissed." Waverly started laughing to himself again as he lit his pipe.

As they headed out the secret corridor, Napoleon turned to his partner.

"The Old Man has a warped sense of humor at times, doesn't he?"

"And this you are just noticing?"


	93. Clothing allowance

"Awwww, not again," Napoleon Solo groused as he ran his index finger through a bullet hole in the shoulder of his suit jacket while he and his partner rode in the elevator of their hotel.

"Better your jacket and not you my friend," his Russian partner quipped.

"You haven't seen my clothing allowance for the month, I'm so over it isn't funny. Waverly is going to have a field day with me after accounting chews his ear off.

"I have said it before; if you wore less costly clothing when in the field, your expense report would no longer be the bane of your existence."

"Hey if I'm going to potentially leave this world chum, I'm going to do so as a well dressed man. I was taught to keep myself looking good…part of the Solo family tradition, and besides my Aunt Amy would...well she wouldn't like it."

"What she does not know will not hurt her,"Illya offered.

"Well I know my friend, but somehow I think she would know too. She has an amazing instinct when it comes to me."

"Ding." The bell rang and the elevator doors opened to their floor.

Napoleon unlocked to the door to their room, heading straight for the closet to get a change of clothing, this time he selected a charcoal grey suit. He had at least four others hanging there, just in case.

Illya stood in front of a full length mirror, simply dusting off his jacket with a clothing brush, thinking he looked just fine. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing Napoleon reflected in the mirror as he changed to a different suit, a navy blue one this time.

Shaking his head; Kuryakin felt that placing such importance on the quality of one's clothes seemed so preposterous. A piece of equipment, a rope, explosives….now those were important….well, clothing was too, but only it needed to be appropriate for operating in the field. A suit was a suit and nothing more in the frugal Russian eyes. Granted, he had gone through his fair share of clothing, perhaps more than Napoleon, when he thought back on it.

There had been an method to his madness of wearing black most of the time, as the majority of his suits were interchangeable, all his black jackets and pants could be mixed and matched, and when needing replacement, they were not expensive. He owned a better grey suit, one that his partner had talked him into, and several sports jackets...burgundy and blue, all of which could be matched with his black pants.

Accounting was never on his back for going over his clothing allotment; though come to think of it, cars were another thing...

 


	94. Luck and Mojo

Two familiar voices spoke in the shadows...

_"Omnia causa fiunt."_

"Hey don't throw Latin at me now. I know everything happens for a reason but we need to get out of here."

"Yes Napoleon, as the British say, 'do not get your knickers in a twist.' I will get it."

The Russian was patiently fiddling with a piece of wire, trying to pick the lock to their current prison cell door.

It was a small room, reeking of must, mold and dampness on the walls dripping with moisture. There was a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Illya's fingers were cold, and he kept having to breath on them to warm them up, given the fact they were bruised and swollen, didn't help matters.

Napoleon was of no use as his right hand was broken, and the pain from it was obviously making him testy, not to mention the conditions in their cell.

"Come on Illya where's that Russian mojo of yours?"

Kuryakin turned and looked him squarely in the eye. "I think it is on vacation with your famous luck, which seems to be nowhere in sight. Now leave me be and let my try in peace."

"Hey don't get cranky with me. I can't comment on the situation?"

"No you may not, and you are not commenting, you are complaining. That is my job, so look who is calling the pan black."

"That's kettle, calling the kettle black," Solo hissed. "Can't you get these things right? You make remarks in other languages and manage to use them correctly."

His partner's complained made him smile. "Who cares what it is, pan...pot. Now will you please stop hovering over my shoulder, you are getting in my light," Illya protested.

There was a sudden click, and the door unlocked.

"About time," Napoleon grumbled. "At least the Solo luck is back."

"I would counter that it was my mojo, but I did not open the door."

"What?"

Illya's eyes were wide with surprise. "I am telling you did not do it, someone else did." He stood quickly, backing away with Napoleon right beside him; both resigning themselves to another round of beatings, no doubt.

The heavy steel door slowly opened with a long, rusted creak and in stepped an unexpected surprise... Mark Slate.

"There you blokes are," Mark grinned at the pair of disheveled agents. "been looking for you forever."

"You're late," the partners blurted out in unison.

"Right blame it on me, "the Brit grumbled as they headed towards him.

"That's gratitude for you. Lucky for you my mojo was working for me."

"Your mojo, no my mojo," Illya looked at him strangely.

"No my Solo luck, "Napoleon chimed in…

"You know, you two can disagree over this later, now let's get going before all our luck and mojo runs out," Slate whispered, waving them through the open door.

Kuryakin glanced at Solo. "For once I think we can agree on that."

"For the moment," Napoleon replied.

"You never give it a rest, do you?" Illya shot back.

Napoleon's mischievous grin was his answer...

 


	95. Never get the Russian mad

His hands were tied behind his back as they slammed him hard against the wall of his cell. The Russian's face was held tightly by determined hands, pressing his cheek against the rough bricks.

Those hands ran down along his body as he was checked for any other devices they might have missed, and discovering his loc pic, they removed it from the hem of his jacket, as well as his watch from his wrist.

"Hmmm, so what are you hiding elsewhere Kuryakin?" The Thrushman's fingers drifted to the Russians crotch, pausing there to fondle him. He sensed Illya's body tensing, and laughed.

"Don't like that do you?" The guard's voice was oozing with lust now."Maybe you could like it...have you ever done it with a guy?" He pulled down the Russian's fly and tried to reach inside his pants.

Illya began to tremble, not showing fear, but shaking with anger. He pulled his head away from the hand that held it, and moved lightning fast, smashing his skull forward into the man's head, dazing him.

Kuryakin spun, kicking the guard in the stomach, and as the man doubled up, he kneed him under the chin sending him flying to the floor. The guard landed on his back, and Illya raised his foot, bringing down his heel, and smashing it hard on the man's genitals.

"You will never try to-bugger-anyone-ever-again." Illya spoke coldly through gritted teeth. Each word accented another blow from his foot to the man's groin, driving him into unconsciousness.

The blond agent worked his way out of his bindings, grabbing the guard's handgun and rifle, and exited his cell, taking down two more guards. He located where Napoleon was being held and freed him in silence.

"You okay Illya?" Solo asked, seeing his partner looking more grim than usual.

"I suppose," he recounted what the guard had tried to do to him and his violent reaction.

"Wow, remind me to never piss you off," Napoleon nodded as they made their escape from the satrap.


	96. Moonshine and Russians

Napoleon Solo asked for a manila envelope waiting for him and Illya at the counter of a general store in the middle of nowhere. It was a simple courier pickup and one they'd been suckered into making since they were driving through the area on the way to the airport.

A man who'd stepped up beside them, picking up his own parcels, clumsily knocked everything from the counter to the floor... his mail, newspapers and their envelope included.

He gathered up his things, a bit flustered, and apologized in a very deep Southern drawl for his clumsiness and left.

When Napoleon glanced at the envelope on the counter, he realized it was the wrong one. Obviously it had been switched in the confusion...his instincts went immediately to the thought that the mix-up was deliberate.

Illya moved quickly to the door and saw the fellow taking off in an old beat-up pickup truck, and called to his partner.

"That man who was just here," Solo turned to the clerk, showing him the envelope. "Is this him?" He pointed to the rural route address while adding a little 'twang' to disguise his northern accent.

"Charlie? Yep that was him...mixed up his mail with yours enh? He's always doing things like that. He lives about five miles or so out of town, just stay straight that a ways on the main road, and you'll be able to find him easy enough. Make a left turn at the tree that looks like a bear, mind you don't turn if you see a bear that looks like a tree." The man's attempt at humor fell flat on the the two agents

The clerk looked at them suspiciously now, eyeing how they were dressed.

"You fellers ain't with the government are you?"

"No, why do you ask?" Illya questioned.

"We usually don't get folks all gussied up in suits in these here parts, lessen it's Sunday, and it ain't Sunday. You're going to a funeral or something?"

"No, just passing through. I told my Uncle I'd pick up his mail for him," Napoleon answered.

"Your Uncle Mr. Alex?"

"Ugh yes, that's what it said on the envelope didn't it?"

"Yep, I read it when I got it out fer you, but don't know the feller. Never seen him here in town. I'm trying to place where his house be."

"Way back in the woods,"Illya said, "waaaay back. He does not come to town."

"Well how does he get his supplies and such?"

"He ummm, grows his own food...does his own canning too," Napoleon said.

"And when he is visited, supplies are dropped off to him...he is what you call 'hermit?" Illya said.

"Hey young feller, you talk kinda funny. You a Yankee?"

Kuryakin was suddenly at a loss for words…

"No, he's not, he comes from...New Orleans," his partner covered for him.

"Oui, yes. New Orleans," Illya added.

"All right then, well you just head that ways as I said and you'll catch up with Charlie in no time. Ya'll have a nice day gents."

.

They made their way down the dusty road, turning left at the tree that most definitely resembled a bear and followed another long, primitive road, arriving at a small farmstead.

As soon as they exited the car, there was the blast of a shotgun. Pellets dotted the car door as Napoleon and Illya ducked for cover.

"Not again," the Russian moaned. "This is the third car rental this month. The Old Man is not going to be happy."

"Hey," Napoleon grinned, "I have suits, you have cars...as far as expenses are concerned, I think you have me beat."

"Shall we focus on the task at hand?" Illya quipped.

"Well you were the one who brought it up."

Everything became eerily quiet and the two agents ran in the opposite directions, each heading around the red barn in pursuit of the man who'd taken that very important envelope from them...or rather, mistakenly taken.

"Charlie? Charlie Evans?" Napoleon shouted, taking cover behind a tractor.

"Who wants to know? You revenuers?"

"No sir, we were at the general store earlier. You dropped your mail and mixed an envelope with ours. We want it back...and we have yours for you."

"Hell, why didn't you say?" Charlie came out of the barn, but suddenly found himself with the barrel of a pistol shoved into his back.

"Easy now there mister, this was just a misunderstanding."

"We will see about that,"Illya growled, relieving Charlie of his shotgun and nudging him towards Napoleon.

"A misunderstanding? You were the one who fired on us with your scattergun and damaged our car."

"Well round these here parts Mister, folks dressed in suits and driving fancy black cars pull up in front of your house and it usually means trouble. See I have me this little still out back behind the barn…"

"Oh I understand now," Illya nodded, still not lowering his gun.

"Mr. Evans, my name is Napoleon Solo and my associate here is Illya Kuryakin...Illya will you put away your gun and show the man we mean him no harm. Thanks that's a pal." He watched the scowl grow on his partners face.

"As I was saying Mr. Evans, we're only here to exchange your letter for ours."

"Sure enough, it's on the table by the door. Why don't you fellers come in and I can get it for you."

Napoleon and Illya followed the man, no longer sensing any danger.

"Here it is," Charlie waved the envelope in the air.

The exchange was made, and the agents were ready to leave…

"Say, let me get you boys something to drink. A peace offering?"

Solo nodded,wanting to be polite.

"Come on in the kitchen then. I'll pour you a jar."

Evans uncorked a ceramic jug he took from his kitchen cabinet, literally pouring their libations into small mason jars used as glasses. He poured a healthy one for himself.

"As I always like to say...'over the teeth and through the gums, look out stomach here she comes."

"Cheers."

_ "Za vstrechu! _ "

Napoleon sniffed his drink before touching it to his lips, barely a sip. It was all he could do to keep from spitting it out as he felt like his mouth was on fire.

Illya, being a bit more hard-core, took a big gulp and swallowed it. He sucked air as the burning liquid went down his throat, and could barely talk.

"That is gooood." He held out his jar for a second helping, to which Evans gladly obliged.

Napoleon covered the top of his jar with his hand, passing on an topping off on what remained.

Illya and Charlie had several more jar fulls before Napoleon interrupted their drinking session.

"Ugh, Illya buddy, I think it's time we get going. Don't want to miss our flight do we?"

"Fllllight? Oh yes, that is riiight." He turned to Evans, thanking him for sharing his white lightning.

Illya teetered a little as they made their way back to the car.

_ "Tovarisch, _ I'm driving if you don't mind?" Solo held out his hand for the car keys."

"Fine, have it your way, but dooonot get ussss lost." Illya tossed him the keys.

They both slipped into the car, the buckshot holes seemingly no longer on Illya's mind.

"That was pretty nasty stuff Illya, how the hell could you drink it?"

He smiled, recalling a happy memory from his younger days. His voice seemed to sober up. "In Soviet Union, many people made their own vodka...as it was better quality than State produced kind. We had our own still at University...in lab. Very goood stuff, and strong...200 proof. Those were days…" Illya's accent became very pronounced as he expressed his fondness for his home-made hooch.

"My God man," Napoleon gasped, "You're lucky you still have a stomach...no I take that back, drinking that is what probably gave you your cast iron stomach."

Illya turned his head slowly to face his partner. There was a warm glow in his eyes, and his cheeks were slightly flushed.

_ "Navernoye_probably. _ " Moments later he closed his eyes, nodding off, as always.

"Kids, dogs, Kuryakin, and moving cars." Napoleon smiled at his partners uncanny ability to fall asleep at the snap of a finger, though he wondered if the moonshine might have helped this time...


	97. Caught in the middle of a revolution

It was raining, something that was long overdue in this arid area. 

 

Napoleon Solo hobbled along with hundreds of other refugees, most carrying their meager belongings balanced in bundles on their heads. Their care-worn faces filled with resignation, a tiredness of the conflict within their country. It was the faces of the children that tore at his heart, the ultimate innocents caught up in an adult pissing match. Life just wasn't fair.

 

Solo carried nothing, and huddled to himself, crossing his arms across his chest as he sloshed along in the growing mud puddles. His once immaculate khaki shirt and pants were tattered and torn.

Someone passing by took pity on him and handed him a blanket, draping it over his head and shoulders.

"Merci." He said in French, burying his cough in his sleeve. He looked up, wanting to see the face of his good Samaritan.

_ "Illya? _ "

"No sorry," a shaggy blond haired man answered. "My name is Emile, Monsieur. Please let me help you, my house is nearby."

Napoleon became light-headed, staggering into the man's waiting arms as he passed out.

When he woke up, he was dry, comfortably dressed in simple but clean clothes and bundled up in a blanket on a cot. There were a number of people in the room with him, all lying or sitting on cots as well, some drinking from small wooden bowls,

"Hello Monsieur," the familiar blond greeted him.

_ "Illya? _ " Napoleon asked again until his vision cleared, realizing it wasn't his partner.

"Welcome back. Do you remember my name is Emile? Could you use some soup?"

"Umm, yes and food would be good." Napoleon sat up slowly, taking the wooden bowl from Emile.

"It is only a thin broth, but better than nothing. As you can see we have many mouths to feed. This war has made for many hungry refugees. _ S'il vous plaît dear God, _ I pray it will be over soon. My people, the  _ Pied-noir, _ those of us who are European-descended, have been here for generations, but I fear in the end we refugees ourselves, and exiled to France as strangers in a strange land.

Napoleon slowly drank the soup, finishing it off before he spoke again.

"Thank you Emile. Say, can you tell me where I am?"

"You are most welcome, but first may I know your name?" He gently asked.

"My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo."

"Mon Dieu, Napoleon is not the best name to have here right now, given we're at war with France. Though I detect by your accent that you are an American."

"Perhaps you're right Emile, how about you call me Tony right now...my middle name is Antony."

"To answer your question, you are just outside the city of Ghardaïa within Ghardaïa Province, in Algeria. Now I have answered your question, so perhaps Antony, you can tell me your story. Why are you here in Algeria in the middle of our war?"

Napoleon hesitated for a moment. Truth or cover story? Did it matter at this point?

For once he opted for the former. "I work for an international organization called U.N.C.L.E. and we were seeking to prevent outside forces from interfering with the natural course of events during your struggle for independence from France."

Emile scratched his head. "Really U.N.C.L.E.? I have recently met someone from this organization, a man...who said he was looking for an American. He said the man's name was Anthony Solamente….hmmm that sounds awfully similar to your name...Napoleon Antony Solo."

"Was he blond like you perhaps? His name Illya Kuryakin?"

"Blond yes, though I think he was a Russian. He did not tell me his name. Who is he? You called me Illya several times."

"He's my partner...do you know where he is?"

"Right behind you my friend," Illya whispered into Napoleons ear. Having gotten that close undetected, he actually startled Solo. Though his momentary alarm turned into the patented smile for which he was so famous.

"Really good to see you chum."

"Even better to see you unscathed and in one piece." Illya returned his grin.

"Yes Monsieur...Napoleon. Your friend here has stayed by your side while you were unconscious, he only walked away a few moments ago to eat some soup."

"Thank you Emile," the Russian said. "And I apologize for not telling you my name. It is indeed Illya, Illya Kuryakin." He offered his hand in gratitude to the man. "Now if you could excuse us for a few minutes, I need to speak to my friend in private."

"But of course. Call me if you need me." He disappeared, taking the empty soup bowl with him.

"I am very relieved to see you alive my friend," Illya smiled. "What happened to you? Mr. Waverly was nearly ready to give up on you as there was no word from you for nearly two months."

"Wow, that long?" Napoleon ran his hand through his hair, and across his chin, taking mental note to himself that he was in need of a haircut and a shave. "I was waylaid by our feathered friends but eventually I managed to escape, but not before destroying their satrap, and taking out the men spearheading the interference with the revolution."

"A job well done Napoleon. The intelligence report of the destruction of the satrap was the clue that you were still alive and I convinced Waverly to let me look for you."

"So how goes the revolution?"

De Gaulle announced Algeria an independent country just after you disappeared months ago. A cease-fire has been declared but the OAS has unleashed new terror. Mr. Waverly has surmised they are seeking to provoke a breach in the ceasefire by the National Liberation Front but the wanton attacks now are also aimed against the French army and police enforcing the accords as well as against Muslims. Like all wars, it is a complicated and messy business."

"If I didn't know better, I would say T.H.R.U.S.H. had a hand in this." Napoleon closed his eyes with a sigh, still exhausted from his ordeal.

"Thanks in part to your handiwork, our feathered friends have been taken out of the equation."

"When can we go home?" Napoleon asked. He was beyond tired and had nothing left to give.

"As soon as you are able my friend. There is little else we can do here. Now sleep, get back your strength."

Solo didn't hear Illya's words as he was already sound asleep and perhaps the first real sleep he’d had in a quite a while.


	98. Timing is everything, well almost

"10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1…" the Russian counted out loud as he and his partner rounded the corner, escaping the impending explosion.

Nothing happened.

They hesitated, waiting a minute before peeking around the wall.

"Are you sure you set the timer right?" Solo whispered.

"Excuse me...demolitions expert here," Kuryakin quipped.

"Yes, but you have set your timers off… periodically."

"One time I make a mistake and you will not let me forget about it."

Illya looked at his watch as three minutes had passed and still no detonation. He swore he set the timer correctly…

Both men froze as the cold metal of gun barrels were pressed against their cheeks; they hadn't heard anyone come up behind them.

"Concerned about this gentlemen?" A block of C-4 was dangled in front of them by the wire Illya had attached to it. The detonator was was missing.

"Hmm, could you tell me what the timer was set for?" Illya suddenly asked.

"What?"

"The timer...how long?"

"Oh," he pulled the device from his pocket, looking at it. "It was set for 20 seconds." He snickered, "That was 20 seconds too long for you U.N.C.L.E. agent."

"See Napoleon, I told you I did not set it incorrectly," Illya insisted with a nod of his head, a signal to his partner to move into action.

They swept aside the guns pointed at them, and came out swinging; disarming the men and taking them down with well-place karate chops.

Illya retrieved the explosives and its accoutrements, reassembling everything within minutes.

"This is not an ideal spot to set it but it will have to do as I suspect we will have more company very soon." This time Kuryakin reset the timer for 30 seconds; planting the device out of sight beneath a small side table standing against the wall.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents dragged the unconscious men down the hall, depositing them near an exit and left the building themselves.

"10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1," Illya checked his watch, counting again as he and Napoleon hit the dirt, taking cover in a nearby ditch.

"BOOM!" A tremendous explosion filled the air, forcing the agents cover their ears. The building went up in a blaze of glory, sending debris in every direction, with a larger explosion than expected.

"See nothing wrong with my timers," Illya gloated.

"I stand corrected tovarisch. That was a pretty big blast though buddy. Did you plan that too, because if you did and we were still inside the building….well, you get my drift."

The Russian's face flushed pink with embarrassment. "Perhaps I did over do it a bit with the C-4."

"Yeah, Mister _ I don't make mistakes, _ " Napoleon sniped as he gave his partner a hand up.


	99. Without feat

It was in the physical therapy room at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York where all different sorts of battles were fought.

Agents wounded in the line of duty were in the process of being nursed back to health, all determined to return to their jobs and serve the Command in spite of the dangers that faced them. They went back to the field again and again, regardless of the damage to their bodies and minds...unless they were permanent.

Illya Kuryakin had suffered a severe injury to his back when the car he and his partner were driving had been blown off a road by a rocket wielding THRUSH helicopter. The U.N.C.L.E. car, despite it's many gadgets and capabilities went careening over a cliff, toppling to the trees below where Solo was thrown clear, suffering a concussion and a broken arm, while his partner lay trapped beneath the wreckage.

It took hours to get help in order to free the Russian and medivac he and his partner out for medical treatment.

.

It had been an arduous recovery after Illya's surgery; frustrating for a man such a Kuryakin not being able to fend for himself. Napoleon helped him, even at times when his partner adamantly refused it.

"No man is an island chum," he'd remind the stubborn blond time and again, until little by little Illya finally came around and accepted Solo's ministrations.

"Hey, that's what friends are for tovarisch. I'm here to help you, so you can concentrate on getting better."

Illya said little, nodding his head in silent acceptance, while trying to maintain his dignity when his personal needs, such as bathing and using the toilet needed to be dealt with. Napoleon even went so far as to cook his meals for him, clean his apartment, basically acting as nurse and housemaid.

Solo had convinced Medical to let Kuryakin go home, promising to oversee his care. If it hadn't been for the American, his partner would have been stuck in his wheelchair, sitting alone in his apartment, but Solo made sure they were out and about, heading to the park for fresh air on a daily basis.

The only time Illya was forced to stay in Medical was when Napoleon was away on assignment, as the staff felt it was better the stubborn Russian be under supervision there; though again he protested, sometimes rather loudly.

 

Solo realized it was fear, only because he knew the stoic man well enough; Illya was afraid of being trapped like this for the rest of his life.

After returning from an assignment, Napoleon walked into the rehab room, seeing something he'd been praying for.

He watched as Illya Kuryakin slowly rose from his wheelchair, grabbing onto a set of parallel bars for support, and painstakingly took one patient step at a time. He began to walk, albeit like a toddler, but it was still walking.

Anyone else would have been grinning, but the Russian's look was one a stern visage; it wasn't until he spotted his friend and partner that he let a crooked smile escape.

Napoleon flashed his famous smile in reply, suddenly quoting Longfellow, "Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear."

" _ Spacibo, moy drug _ ...I will, thanks to you."

"No my friend, this is your doing not mine; you're one tough son of a gun. Good to see you up and about."

"Good to be seen," Illya reached the end of the parallel bars, being offered his wheelchair by the therapist.

_ "Nyet, _ again."

"I think that'll do for now Mr. Kuryakin. We don't want to overdo it."

"As my partner said...the present is mine and I will meet the future, unafraid. I go again," the Russian's face was filled with singular determination.

The therapist looked questioningly to Solo.

"Hey you heard the man...he goes again," Napoleon winked.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	100. There's all kinds of luck

Gunfire erupted around the two fleeing UNCLE agents as they ran down an alleyway, attempting to escape their pursuers.

It was pointless to turn and fire back or even to stop and take a stand as there was little to no cover, the fact they were outnumbered didn't help either.

"There!" Kuryakin shouted to his partner. "Head for that dumpster!

As Solo half-turned, looking back at the Russian...it happened.

Illya watched in horror as Napoleon's body contorted; he was hit in the chest by a single shot and crumpled to the pavement.

The Russian dove towards his friend as the bullets continued to zip past him; Illya turned, firing his Special, taking down two of the Thrushmen who'd foolishly stepped into view to celebrate the downing of Solo.

"Napoleon,"Illya gasped, a bullet tearing into his left shoulder. He fired again, hitting the remaining enemy agent. Kuryakin dropped to the ground, letting his gun fall as he grabbed Solo's jacket with his hand; trying to pull the man to him.

He couldn't see any blood, but the bullet hole was directly over his partner's heart.

"Please do not leave me my friend...not you too." It was all the Illya could do to hold back his grief. He cradled Napoleon's head in his arms, hoping against hope, when he heard a moan.

Napoleon's eyes slowly opened…

"You okay Illya?" Solo spotted the bloody shoulder wound.

He pulled Napoleon to him in a hug. "Bozhe moy, thought I lost you."

"The rumors of my demise were highly exaggerated," Solo quipped, as he freed himself of his partner's grip., and pushed himself up on his elbows.

"Napoleon you are alive!"

"Last time I checked, yes."

"But I saw you hit...there is a bullet hole right over your heart. How could you survive that?"

Solo reached inside his jacket, pulling out something silver, and handing it to the Russian.

"A flask?" Illya looked at it, seeing a dent where the bullet must have hit. Engraved on the outside in Cyrillic was one word 'здоровье'...health.

"It was supposed to have been a gift for you," Napoleon smiled sheepishly."There's vodka in it...the kind you like."

"Me? For what purpose?"

"For no particular reason...just a gift for my best friend, that's all."

Illya opened the cap, taking a swig from the flask, and passing it to Solo.

"Smooth," Napoleon said, taking a mouthful.

"So chum you sort of saved my life again...the flask deflecting the bullet that is."

"How do you figure that?" Illya gave him a hand up.

"Well it was your flask, and it took the bullet instead of your usual move to step in front of me and take the bullet yourself."

Illya smiled. "I hardly think that. I would venture a guess it was more likely your famous Solo luck that was responsible...and thank you for my gift by the way."

Napoleon brushed off his suit, pulling his handkerchief and pouring a bit of the vodka on it, he held it to Illya's injury. It was more of a flesh wound, and this time he deemed Illya to be the lucky one.

"You know tovarisch, there's all kinds of luck but I'll count you as the best luck of all in my life. Now come on, let's get you back to headquarters and have that shoulder taken care of." Napoleon pulled his communicator. "Open Channel D- Solo here. We need a cleanup crew…"

 


	101. Lucky for once

It was a relief as the two U.N.C.L.E. agents slipped into their seats on board their United flight, taking them back to New York.

It had been a rough assignment that ended up in a near disaster. Both Napoleon and Illya did not come out unscathed as each had broken arms, and their faces were pretty well beaten up from their interrogation session with a T.H.R.U.S.H. megalomaniac.

The looks they received as they hobbled through the airport terminal, and check-in were almost unnerving, and Illya turned, sounding off.

"What? You have never seen a person who had been in an automobile accident before?"

That barbed comment had people quickly turning away in embarrassment.

"Nice move chum," Napoleon whispered, "that'll teach 'em to stare."

A few minutes before takeoff one of the stewardess dressed in her pale blue shift and matching blue cap stepped up to them, bending forward, speaking in hushed tones.

"Gentlemen, I have two seats available in first class and wondered if you'd care to move up there... Seeing as how it's a bit cramped for you, given your injuries, you might be more comfortable."

Napoleon didn't hesitate smiling and giving her his answer.

"Wait a moment,"Illya interrupted," how much will this upgrade cost us? You know my friend, accounting issues?" He reminded the American.

"Why...Mr. Kuryakin," she looked at her passenger list," there's no extra charge. We have the space, and it's a courtesy for you both….and we're serving Surf and Turf."

That did it, and Illya instantly rose from his seat. "Thank you, that is very kind of you to offer...Stephanie." He looked at her nametag.

"Our pleasure, now if you'll follow me gentlemen...we'll get you settled in before we start to taxi."

Napoleon noticed a sour look on his partner's face as the sat together in their first class seats that definitely had more legroom and creature comforts. The stewardess immediately offered them drinks, extra pillows and blankets.

"What's wrong tovarisch?"

"I do not have this sort of luck, unlike you, and am waiting for the left shoe to fall."

"That's 'the other shoe,' and don't be such a worry wart for once. Soak it up when it comes your way. We may never see first class again."

"Oh trust me, I am soaking it up." He took a long sip of his vodka. "You know me, ever the fatalist." He tried breaking a smile. "I am just...unaccustomed to such niceties happening to me."

Napoleon downed his scotch on the rocks as the jetliner taxied into position and accelerated to a smooth take off. Once they levelled off, he signalled the stewardess for another round.

"Listen chum," he finally said,'never look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Sorry I am not familiar with that particular idiom, what does it mean?"

Solo grinned at the pretty dark-haired stewardess as she arrived with their drinks.

"Dinner will be served shortly Mr. Solo. How do you prefer your steak?"

"Medium and my friend here likes rare, thank you." It was all he could do to break eye contact with her as she had the most gorgeous green eyes.

"Now to answer your question chum, the phrase, can be traced back to St. Jerome, who referred to it as a common saying in his introductory remarks to the Epistle to the Ephesians in his translation of the New Testament: "Equi donati dentes non inspiciuntur." A rather mangled literal translation would go something like this: "A given horse's teeth are not inspected."

"Ah yes, I think I understand now," Illya nodded. "Horses' gums recede as they age making their teeth appear longer. Inspecting the teeth of a horse given as a gift would be considered ungrateful. It would mean the recipient was trying to see if the horse was old and undesirable. Yet my I still do not see the connection regarding my concern about the 'other shoe falling?"

"Illya?"

"Yes Napoleon?"

"Just shut up, enjoy yourself and quit your worrying for once, and that's an order."

"Fine, if you are going to pull rank on me..."

"I am, now cheers."

_"Chtoby podarit' loshadey_to gift horses."_


	102. Need to know basis

The helicopter flew low to the ground in the dark, allowing the two passengers dressed in black, their faces smeared with grease paint, to hop down without it having to land.

As soon as the pair hit the ground it sped away, leaving them there alone a the top of the cliff.

They quickly set about their task, hammering stakes into the ground and just as quickly they set up their D-links harnesses and ropes. Wordlessly the lowered themselves over the edge and in no time they repelled down the side of the cliff; coming to a stop at its base.

The ropes were abandoned, and the carbines slung over their shoulders were held at the ready.

Napoleon Solo, signalled, pointing his two fingers to his eyes...telling his companion to keep a keen watch. The other man, Mark Slate nodded.

They moved forward in unison, heading towards a small building located at the far end of the ravine they were now traversing.

No fencing surrounded it, nor were there any visible guards. Those within were utterly confident they were safe in their little hide away…

When the two agents were close, they knelt side by side; Solo pulling out a pair of mini-binoculars.

"Well mate, see him?" Slate whispered.

Napoleon continued scanning the building, looking through the unprotected windows until he found who he was looking for...Alexander Waverly. He was seated in a simple wooden chair, surrounded by a group of men in white lab coats.

One of those men moved aside, revealing a familiar Russian, seated in a similar chair beside the CCO. His head was drooping forward against his chest.

"He's there on the first floor...Illya's with him."

Napoleon handed the binoculars to the Brit.

"Doesn't look good," Slate concluded. "I don't see any guards though, that's making me nervous."

"Oh ye of little faith. "Don't need guards when they have them both drugged up."

"Riiight," Mark mumbled. "And how do you know that?

"Mark, look at them. Their heads are drooping, eyes almost closed."Napoleon spoke in hushed tones, "Follow me." He led the way, moving quickly to the door. He wasn't surprised when he found it unlocked and stepped into the hall. Directly to his right was the entrance to the room they sought.

"Ready?" He whispered and a second later he battered down the door with a mighty kick.

He and Mark fired their sleep darts, not leaving the white coats any time to defend themselves, watching them drop like flies to the floor.

"Good show gentleman," Waverly stood up from the chair, apparently unharmed and seemingly fine. I'm afraid Mr. Kuryakin won't be awake for a while. They tried using a truth serum on him but thankfully the new conditioning developed by R & D counteracted its effects. After biting down on a false tooth, he released a counter agent, much to our captors dismay. Mr. Kuryakin simply passed out on them. They were most frustrated...though they were about to use their serum on me when you arrived. I on the other hand would have had a permanently adverse reaction to their drugs."

"And that is sir?"

"I would have died Mr. Solo. It is the newest formula given to CCOs...called the Exit Strategy. Information that we Continental Chiefs possess is so sensitive, so vital that it can not risk being revealed. If that were to occur, U.N.C.L.E. as well as a number of other organizations would be compromised, permanently."

"I had no idea sir, "Napoleon said as he picked up Illya, hiking him over his shoulder in a fireman's hold. "And Mr. Kuryakin...he'll be all right won't he?"

"Oh goodness gracious, yes he will. If we gave such a formula to our field agents...we'd run out of operatives too quickly, given how often you tend to be captured. No, the one given to our young Russian here is new. He should be unconscious for at least seventy-two hours, it has the same duration as our little blue amnesia pill, capsule B," Waverly smiled, seemingly pleased. "Except this one is green of course."

.

How Waverly knew this, Solo had no idea, but then again the Old Man always seemed to be a step ahead on everything….most of the time.

Seventy two hours later, Napoleon sat in a molded plastic orange chair beside his partner's bed in the Medical wing of New York headquarters. He looked at his watch, waiting impatiently and just like clockwork, Illya's eyes fluttered open just as Waverly had predicted.

He blinked a few times, trying to focus when he recognized where he was. Without looking, he asked his question, clearing his throat first. "Seventy two hours?"

"Pretty much on the nose tovarisch. How do you feel?"

"Like I have been run over by a tank." Illya smacked his lips. "Might I have a drink of water, my mouth feels as though said tank has driven through it as well."

Napoleon helped him sit up, and brought the water to Illya's mouth as he was still too weak to hold onto the glass.

"I am not sure if this new formula is feasible," the Russian finally said. "I will have a talk with R & D about it." His eyes suddenly widened, remembering Waverly. "Is he all right?"

"Yep, the Old Man is fine. We got lucky...he told me about this suicide formula. I don't like it one bit."

"Yes it is rather extreme, but necessary."

"You knew about it...why didn't I?"

"I could not help but know about it, I helped develop it… a Section I mandate. It was on a need to know basis, and apparently Mr. Waverly felt you did not need to know, just yet."

That didn't sit well with Solo either. "Anything else I don't know?"

"As far as I know, that is it. Remember Napoleon, I am not privy to everything. You have a higher security clearance than me, and I am sure there are things you are aware of that I am not."

"True, fair play." Solo laid his hand on his partner's shoulder. "We'll have to do something about that. I'll have a talk with Mr. Waverly."

"That really is unnecessary my friend. I go where I am told and do as I am told, and there is no need for explanations."

"Stubborn to the core aren't you?"

"Da… Now can you somehow get me out of here. I am famished as it has been far too long since I have eaten. I want real food and not green jello."

That made Solo smile, knowing his partner and friend would never change.

Napoleon disappeared from the room, returning moments later with a wheel chair, and a plastic bag containing Illya's clothes.

"Oh like that is really going to get me past Nurse Walsh. You cannot come up with something more covert than that? I thought you were a master spy."

"Insults won't get you anywhere, especially out of here."

"I apologize," Illya said, quickly getting dressed.

"Okay, now just get in the chair and keep your mouth shut."

The Russian did as ordered, and surprisingly he was wheeled past the nurse's duty station without a word being said. Just as Solo backed the chair into the elevator, Nurse Walsh looked up.

"Napoleon, you forgot to take Illya's discharge papers with you."

"And you going to tell me this when?" Illya groused.

"Ummm, well it was on a need to know basis…"

 


	103. A stick in the mud

There was a mad dash out of the building as Napoleon heard his partner yelling the countdown.

"Five-four-three-two…"

The agents dove for cover behind a short freestanding wall, dragging Margaret McMillan with them. She tried to peek over it, but Napoleon put his hand on the top of her blonde head, pushing her down just as the detonation took place. She followed suit, sticking her fingers in her ears just as Solo and Kuryakin were doing.

"BOOM!"

Margaret went to remove her fingers, but the Russian stopped her.

"Wait," and nodded in satisfaction when there was an equally loud explosion. It was then the three of them peeked over the top of the wall, viewing the carnage and what was left of the T.H.R.U.S.H. satrap.

"Nice job partner mine," Napoleon smiled, dusting off his suit and helping Margaret to her feet.

"I could not have managed it if it had not been for Miss McMillan. It was she who stole the key to the lab where I was able to plant the explosives."

"Hmmm, I think that'll get you a very special reward my dear,"Solo crooned, putting his arm around her shoulder in an attempt to cuddle up to her.

Margaret removed his hand, peeling it away like a banana skin. "I did it to help Mr. Kuryakin...and no reward is necessary. It was the right thing to do. Once I found out my employers were shady characters hell bent on hurting people, I couldn't 'not' help."

She sidled up to Illya, taking hold of his arm. "Now if you see fit to reward me...Illya, I wouldn't mind that one bit."

Illya deftly released himself from her grip and took a step away. "Would that I could, but Miss McMillan..." He flashed her the gold band on his ring finger.

"Oh...OH," she covered her open mouth with her hand, trying to hide her disappointment.

Napoleon called for a clean-up team, and hours later the trio found themselves at headquarters in New York with Miss McMillan taken for debrief.

Solo and Kuryakin having made their report to Mr. Waverly, and at last, headed to the Commissary for a cup of coffee. The day wasn't over and both needed a little jolt of energy.

Illya as usual was as hungry as a horse, grabbing a pastrami sandwich, and together they settled themselves at their usual table in the back corner of the room.

"So what gives with you and Margaret? She's quite a looker and all you can do is flash that band of yours, telling her you're married?"

"I never told her I was married."

"But…"

"She drew her own conclusions. I said nothing other than I would if I could..."

"Why tovarisch, she's a great looking gal with a personality to match and obviously she has a thing for you."

"I do not have a 'thing' as you say for her, and I would most certainly would not take advantage of woman in that way. I am not an opportunist in that respect."

"Your loss chum," Napoleon smiled, "so you wouldn't mind if I tried to get her attention again."

"My friend, it is not my place to give you permission. Do as you will, it is not my business. You are both consenting adults, and if you wish to sanction such actions...the poor girl's head is reeling from the day."

"Illya sometimes you can be a real...well, stick in the mud." Napoleon shook his head, having had the rug pulled out from under him. Illya had laid a guilt trip on him in the blink of an eye and Solo hadn't even seen it coming.

"Thank you. I take that as a compliment. " Kuryakin raised his mug of coffee to his partner in acknowledgement.

 


	104. Christmas company

He reached into his partner's kitchen cabinet, finding the mismatched assortment of plates and mugs, and picking up one of the cups, he chuckled to himself.

The message printed on it said "My friend went to Disneyland and all I got was this lousy mug."

Napoleon remembered bringing it back as a souvenir for Illya, and the strange look his partner gave him.

On the next shelf above the dishes was a neatly organized set of etched Russian tea glasses, set in silver-plated holders. That's what he was looking for...

He put the kettle on the stove, and after the water boiled, he prepared the tea as Illya had shown him once, and thinking it must be a comforting ritual for a man so far from home...a home he would most likely never see again.

There was a half a loaf of pumpernickel bread in the breadbox, and while the tea was steeping, he threw a couple of slices in the toaster. He snapped his fingers, checking the fridge finding a few half empty takeout containers, which he promptly threw in the trash, and surprisingly he found a few eggs left in a carton. Napoleon checked the expiration date, and saw it was fine. Luck would have it, there was a package of breakfast sausages as well, not even opened yet and still within the expiration date as well.

Illya was never one for keeping in too much food supplies as he rarely cooked and said he was away more often than not, and the food would only spoil. He also claimed he was not a very good cook, but with Kuryakin's appetite, Napoleon found that hard to beleive.

Apparently the Russian wasn't familiar enough with the concept of frozen dinners... Very convenient for people in their line of work; just take it from the freezer, pop it in the oven and when it was ready, add a few garnishments and voila, instant meal.

Several minutes later Napoleon walked into his partner's bedroom carrying the tray with the freshly cooked breakfast on it.

Illya was in bed with bandages over his eyes and a cast on his ankle...injuries the result of his last assignment that had gone horribly wrong. That fact and his inconvenient injuries had him in a grumpy mood.

"Breakfast is served my friend...sorry no rose in a vase though."

"Cute," Illya tried to smile as his partner had promised to look after him while his eyes were on the mend. The doctors in Medical had reassured him his sight would return.

"Hmm, let me test my olfactory senses...eggs, toast and tea?" He sniffed again."And do I smell sausage?"

"On the nose and no pun intended, but good to know your proboscis is still working."

He put the tray on Illya's lap and handed him the utensils.

"Tea is at two o'clock, and on the plate the eggs are at six o'clock, the toast at twelve and two sausages at three o'clock."

"Only two?"

"I could take away the tray and let you starve, you ungrateful Russian," Napoleon threatened.

"Sorry, I was only joking. Thank you Napoleon for helping me but you have things to do and do not need to spend your day hovering over me like a mother hen. Do you not have your Christmas shopping to do and stockings to stuff?" Illya said, tongue in cheek.

"Hey, I decide what I want to do, and hanging out here with you is exactly what I want. You're not in any position move around with your injuries, so you're stuck with me. I could turn on the radio for you to listen to the news, or read aloud from the newspaper for you, if you prefer."'

"Actually, conversation would be nice for the moment. " Illya put a forkful of egg in his mouth and sighed at the taste of it. "You do make very good fried eggs Napoleon. Perhaps, once my sight is restored, you could show me how to do it, as all I ever manage is to scramble them."

"That's a deal, and maybe we could go out and buy you a nice set of dishes that actually match.

"What is wrong with the ones I have? I bought them at a second hand store and they seem quite serviceable to me." He bit into his toast with a crunch.

"Illya, a plate that says The Wisconsin Cheesemakers Convention 1959 isn't very appealing.

"I suppose you are right, but I want nothing fancy like you have , and no service for twelve either."

Napoleon laughed softly. "No plain white everyday dishes and a service for four would be more than enough for you."

"That sounds agreeable, but I will keep the convention plate...for a cheese platter, "Illya snorted.

"You can be such a stubborn smart-ass at times Kuryakin."

"Yes I know, and thank you for noticing."

 


	105. Driving Miss Daisy

Illya automatically slipped behind the wheel of the silver convertible while his partner sat beside him on the passenger side.

He was just about to insert the key into the ignition when he turned to Napoleon, his face looking puzzled.

"Why do I have to always be the one to drive?"

"I don't know? I never told you to drive," Napoleon responded. "I'll take over if you want me to tovarisch."

Illya tilted his head, thinking over the offer. "On second thought, I just remembered the reason."

"And why's that?"

"You always get us lost when you..."

"I do not."

"Hmm, let me recount for you. Greece, Italy, Spain, Switzerland...oh yes, the south of France, Scotland, Manchester...and dare we forget Arkansas?"

"Point taken," Solo shrugged pretending not to take umbrage, yet deep down in side he knew his partner was probably right. Map reading skills and cartography were not his forté even back in Survival School, though he made up for that in so many other ways.

"Drive on McDuff," Napoleon said, not giving the Russian any satisfaction by admitting to his weakness.

Illya started up the engine and slowly pulled out into traffic.

"And how did you pass Survival School with your map-reading skills, or should I say, lack thereof," Illya asked while navigating through traffic.

"Hey it wasn't just on my devilish charm and good looks, just you pay attention to the road, Mister smart aleck."

Napoleon tried to ignore the snickers coming from behind the steering wheel…

"Just watch it Kuryakin or next time I will do the driving."

"Perish the thought," Illya laughed out loud this time.

"Enough, just drive and get us where we need to be. That courier won't wait all day!"

Illya saluted the American. "Da-eer, right away sir!" He made right hand turn, letting himself be distracted for a split second.

"BOOM!"

A car slammed into the front driver side of the car. Another driver had run the red light.

The two agents were jarred to the side as shards of window glass shattered around them.

Illya took the worst of it, hitting his head and receiving cuts to his face. He slammed the car into park, before he became light headed. Though still conscious he was momentarily stunned and felt his body being dragged out of the passenger side.

"Speak to me buddy," Solo called to him. "You okay?"

The Russian's baby blues opened wide, looking upwards at his partners bloody face.

"I will be fine," Illya groaned.

The car was a total wreck, but thankfully the injuries weren't serious.

"Mr. Waverly is not going to be happy that you destroyed another car Illya."

"What do you mean...I destroyed? The other driver ran a red light!"

"Well if I was driving, yes I probably would have gotten us lost," Napoleon smiled," but as fate would have it, we woudn't have been at the right place at the wrong time."

"My friend, sometimes your illogical logic is flawless."

"Thank you, coming from you that's quite a compliment…" Solo grinned.

 


End file.
